


Polaroid Snapshots

by PenPistola



Series: NeverVerse [2]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Curtain Fic, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Family, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Parenthood, Post-Game(s), Slice of Life, Species Swap, WAFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:59:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 104,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2214945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenPistola/pseuds/PenPistola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard, raising a kid on your own in a world where your skin doesn't fit quite right, where you have dreams of another place and time, where you swear you don't belong. It's hard, and nobody understands. Well. Almost nobody.</p><p>Featuring Strilonde shenanigans in a post-game universe.</p><p>This story is a sequel to/takes place concurrently with Neverwere. Can be read separately, or see Notes for an option to read both stories at once with the chapters interleaved in chronological order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Initium

**Author's Note:**

> This story acts as a companion and sequel to Neverwere, and many of its chapters take place concurrently with Neverwere's timeline. My suggestion is to read the series one of two ways: either read Neverwere and then read Polaroid Snapshots, or read both stories at once with the chapters interleaved in chronological order. If you'd rather do that, then see [this chronological chapter list](http://pen-pistola.livejournal.com/19114.html).
> 
> The entire story, less the last two chapters, is already written. I plan to edit and post a chapter every three days (though I can be persuaded to post more or less frequently, if you like!) The points of view have expanded, from Dirk only in Neverwere, to Dirk, Roxy, Rose, and Dave in this fanfic.
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: slight underage, underage drinking.

\-- April, 1995 --

"Roxy, girl, you know it's been real, but I gotta go. I have to be hangover-free for my exam tomorrow at noon."

Your name is Roxy Lalonde, it's your birthday, and you are deeeee- _runk_. "That's cool," you say loudly in Aisha's ear, so she can hear you over the crowd. "You just do what you gotta do."

"You promise me you'll get a cab?" she asks. “And call me when you get home?"

"I praaaahmise, god."

It's cute when she gets all worried and motherly like that, but you can take care of yourself. Just to prove it, you stand up straighter and put on your most sober expression. If you sway a little, it's only because these heels are killing you.

Aisha purses her lips like you're not fooling her in the slightest. "If you say so."

"I do!"

“Well then," she shrugs. "Happy birthday, Rox. I'll see you Monday."

You exchange air kisses, and then with one last backward glance, Aisha leaves you behind. All the rest of your birthday entourage left ages ago, citing jobs or kids or classes, and with Aisha gone, you're on your own. At least, as 'on your own' as you can be in a club full of strangers. Maybe you should find someone else to keep you company.

You meander over to the bar, where a couple of guys check you out or give you flirty looks, but most of them are already engaged in conversation with other women. Or dudes; you don't judge.

Someone brushes by you to lean over the bar. It's a guy, a head taller than you even though you're wearing six-inch heels. You catch a view of him in profile: strong nose, bizarre, triangular shades, a few tattoos, and holy _hell_ , those arms. He orders a Tom Collins (is he even old enough to drink?), and receives it in short order. He doesn’t give a name for his tab, which mystifies you until you watch him eel his way through the crowd to the DJ stand and climb the stairs. Aha.

You wander closer to the stand yourself, watching the young guy work. His hands flick over the turntables faster than your beer goggles can keep up with. One track fades out into the next, augmented and scratched and glitched until it sounds like a beatboxing robot. The kid's damn good, better than plenty of DJ's twice his age. You always did have a thing for talented pretty boys.

You wonder if you could have _him_ as a birthday present. Well. No harm in trying, right?

You move as close to the stand as you dare, loitering until he notices your presence and lifts a headphone, and then you lay down your suavest pick-up line: "Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?"

He rocks back on his heels and his expression flickers for a split second before smoothing back out into casual indifference.

"Okay, lady," he says, only just audible over the music. "Let's assume for a moment that we've already gone through the basic pleasantries. Nice to meet you, pleasure's all mine, et cetera. Let's also assume for both our sakes that in the course of our introductions, you never asked me my age, giving both of us plausible deniability should anyone else have overheard what you just asked me."

It takes a second for his meaning to sink in, but when it does, you give a disappointed whine. "Really? But I saw you at the bar getting drinks earlier."

"That doesn’t mean anything," he shrugs. "I'm only seventeen. S'what fake IDs are for."

Seventeen? Aw, fuck, that's too young. But wait—not according to state law. Shit yeah, you may still have a chance. "Ooh, naughty," you grin.

"I try."

He turns back to his decks like that's the end of the conversation. You bump your hip against a nearby column and lean, just waiting, because, hey, who said you were done hitting on him? You watch him with saintly patience for a whole three songs, winking every time he glances your way, until finally:

“Look. Do you always make it a point to hit on vulnerable, inebriated minors?”

"Not usually, though I'm sure you're used to getting hit on all the time. But you should know that I don’t do _this_ …" you flail your hand at him, "type of thing very often."

"Special occasion?”

You rake your eyes up and down his body, undressing him in your head. "More like... _exceptional_ circumstances." And then, because you can't help yourself, "Whaddimean is... you're hawt."

He chews his labret piercing for a second or two as he thinks, his hands running over his turntables on autopilot. "Alright," he says, exasperated yet amused, "but I'm sure you don't need me to tell you we can't be seen leaving together. So here's how it goes. My shift ends and I bust this joint at 12:30 on the dot. You wait ten minutes. Not eight, not twelve, ten. You follow me out, _casually_ , and I'll be waitin' for you in the alley behind the dumpster. Got it?"

Fucking _score_. You're about to respond with an obscene description of what you plan to do to him, but wow, that couple is dancing awfully close to you. Instead, you wink and say, "Yeah, I'll be sure to check them out! Thanks for the rec, Mr. DJ!" You are the sneakiest. It's you.

He leans down to hand you a business card that looks like it was printed with a cheap inkjet printer on perforated cardstock, and you make your retreat.

DJ Strider, eh? Hopefully he's just as good with his hands in bed.

Half-past-twelve is simultaneously a blip and an eternity away. You meander back to the bar for a while, have another martini or three, but you get yourself so worked up just thinking about your new boy toy that you can't stand it anymore and you leave the club to go around and wait for him in the alley.

At 12:30 exactly, the back door opens. There he is. He's swaying minutely, like you are, sweat sheening on his skin under the yellow-orange street lamps. His lips are quirked in the faintest ghost of a smirk. You're gonna ride this dude like a mechanical bull.

You've already got a cab waiting at the curb, as you'd promised Aisha. Now you just need a place to go, because no way are you taking a stranger back to your apartment, or following him to his home. A neutral hookup spot is best. Luckily, you know just the place. You slur a name to the cab driver, who is familiar enough with the seedy motel that he doesn't need the address. Strider runs his hands over you all the way there, his breath hot on your pulse against your neck, and ohhhh.

You practically fall out of the cab when you arrive, only remembering to pay the driver when he verbally reminds you along with a pointed eye roll. Whatever; you threw in an extra five bucks, so it's not like he can complain.

The guy at the motel front desk doesn't question what you and Strider are doing here. He takes one look at you and says, "Ten bucks an hour, and an extra five if we've gotta wash the sheets when you're done. You unwad and hand him twenty-five. "Room 104. Here's your key."

"Thankee, sir."

The motel rooms are all exterior, facing the parking lot, and yet Strider has no compunctions about shoving you against the stucco and grinding on you in plain sight. You ricochet down the wall, too drunk to care about room numbers; you just try the key in every lock till it fits.

Room 104 is a total shithole, but hey, you won't be here for long. Strider closes the door behind you. You take that as your cue to start stripping clumsily out of your minidress and the lab coat you're still wearing from class. He raises an eyebrow, but quickly gets to work himself. He's got a beautifully toned torso under his skinny black tank top, and when he peels off his jeans...

"Rainbow Brite panties?"

Okay, so it's a little weird that he's wearing girls' underwear, but at the same time, you can see the outline of his half-hard dick through them, and that's totally hot. They're not doing much to corral his balls, either. "They're ironic," he shrugs. You wonder if he knows what ironic really means. It becomes a moot point a second later when he hooks his thumbs in the waistband and shucks the panties off, leaving them in a pile with the rest of his clothes.

Seems like whiskey dick's not a problem for him.

"Nice," you say appreciatively. He's cut, the high end of average in length but very thick. You move closer and wrap your hand around him. He lets out a huff in your ear and his hips judder forward. "Kinda eager, ain't cha?"

"Shhhhhut up," he says lowly. He takes you by the shoulders and walks you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. You topple over, and the world is spinning dizzyingly around you, but that’s fine. Everything is fine. He clambers over you, his body heavy and warm despite the rattling window unit trying its level best to freeze you out, and presses a searing kiss to your mouth. When he pulls away, it's with your lip caught in his teeth. Your hips buck up automatically to meet his, grinding your pubic bone into his cock. You've always been a fan of kissing. He's fierce and hungry as he gets into it, all tongue and teeth, traveling down the column of your neck to nip at your collarbone.

"Ffffuu-hu-huuuck," you moan. You let your hands wander down to tangle in and tug at his hair, which he seems to like, judging by the way he ruts against you. And then he smirks, just in your line of vision, and sinks down lower.

Happy fuckin' birthday to you.

\--

Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you're starting to think you've seriously fucked up. It's three in the morning and you're in the back of a cab on the way to your apartment, significantly soberer than you were a couple of hours ago. Soberer than you were when you picked up a teenager and brought him back to a motel room for sex.

What is wrong with you? What the everloving _fuck_ is _wrong_ with you?

It wasn't your first one-night-stand. You're still fresh out of grad school, and you're no stranger to drunken college antics and poor decisions. You've been trashed at loads of parties, written papers while hung over, and done the walk of shame more times than you can count, but this is different. This is worse.

(Fuck, who are you kidding? It was only a matter of time before you crossed some line you couldn’t come back from. At least you didn’t DUI and kill the kid.)

Your beer goggles had begun to wear off toward the end of the encounter, so you can picture him pretty well. Rangy but muscular, dark blond and sharp-eyed, with cheekbones and a jawline you could cut glass on. Striking. But also far younger than he looked; far too young for you. Technically legal, according to the age of consent laws here in Texas, but you're twenty-three, and he was seventeen, and that math does _not_ add up.

And yet it wasn't as if he was some trembling virgin whose innocence you'd stolen. He'd had _skills_. Practice. Your face heats up just thinking about the way he'd gone down on you like he couldn't get enough of you, the way he’d snarled like a wounded animal as he pulsed in you–

Wait. _Shit_. You'd used a condom, right? There's a torn and empty wrapper in your purse, and you vaguely remember the kid wearing one at some point, but he'd come multiple times. If at any point he took it off without replacing it, or if it tore... You break out into a cold sweat. _Fuck_.

"Ma'am?" the cab driver calls, startling you out of your thoughts. "We're here."

"S-sorry, thanks," you say, and scramble through your purse to put together enough cash to pay him. As soon as the money is in his hand, you bolt. Forget the change. You stumble your way into your building and down the hall till you get to your apartment door. _Shit shit shit_. The key slips off the lock four times before it goes in.

Once inside, you make a beeline straight for the medicine cabinet in your bathroom. Several years ago, you'd filched an extra pack of birth control pills from your dorm roommate to serve as 'backup'. Your klepto tendencies have never come in handier.

You punch out all seven of the remaining blisters at once, toss the pills into your mouth, then stick your head under the sink to wash them down. The taste is pretty horrible, but it's worth it. Hell, you'd grind them up and mainline them if you thought it would help. The clock on the wall chimes four, and you slump down against the counter, exhausted but relieved.

Crisis averted. Or so you think.

You're emptying the trash can in your bathroom a couple weeks later when you come across the spent blister pack. In your drunken state, you hadn’t paid much attention to the packaging around the pills. Now, a creeping suspicion nags at the back of your mind, and so you take a closer look. All seven of the ones you’d taken were from row four. The placebo week.

 _Fuck. Everything_.

Your mouth goes dry. Your period was due to start a couple days ago, but it’s been late before, so that doesn't mean anything. The chances that you'd just happen to get pregnant after one encounter are pretty low, right? Odds are, you're safe and freaking out about nothing.

The thing about odds, though, is that even if they're a million to one, that one could still come along and righteously fuck up your day.

It's too early for an accurate pregnancy test reading. All you can do now is wait to see what happens, and you are not a patient person. You do not deal well with being in emotional limbo.

Tick tock.

Whether you're PMSing or whether it's stress or whether—god forbid—you're pregnant and hormonal, you fall back onto your bed, curl into a ball, and cry.

 


	2. Dispossession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Individual warnings for this chapter: homophobic slurs, child abuse, violence.

\-- May, 1995 --

Your name is Dirk Strider, and this is the beginning of the end.

It starts like most fights with your father do. You and your parents are seated around the dinner table, as per your father's rule that there's no such thing as a 'TV dinner' in this house. You'd long ago realized that, far from an attempt to bring you all closer together, it was a ploy to keep you nearby so he could antagonize you at his leisure. Bastard.

"So," he starts off. You give an inward sigh, because you can tell by the way he says it that he's already raring for a fight. "I was playing a round of golf with Jim this afternoon—you know him, Deborah, he works over at the school board—and he told me that the senior class’s report cards had all gone out on Monday." He turns to you, jabbing his fork at you with a hunk of meatloaf still attached. "It's Sunday, Dirk. Why haven't I seen yours yet?"

Shit.

You focus your eyes on your plate so as not to give anything away (no shades at the table, either), and stir at your mashed potatoes. "Sorry, I just forgot," you lie casually. "I got distracted with my job, and trying to prepare for graduation, and all that shi– _stuff_. You know how it is."

You shovel a forkload of potatoes in your mouth and hazard a glance upward. Your mother, a silent statue as usual, is pretending to be deeply interested in her salad. Your father is staring at you with narrowed eyes, and your stomach tightens a bit. You stop chewing. He doesn't believe you.

"Don't lie to me, Dirk."

"I'm–"

"Don't you fucking lie to me!" He slams his palms down on the table, and it's only by sheer force of will that you don't jump. "If you're not back here with your report card in hand in thirty seconds or less, so help me, I'll smash every goddamn record you own."

Your chair screeches across the floor, you stand so fast. Your father has never failed to make good on his threats. It takes you twenty seconds to race into your room and grab the crumpled report card, and at your father's muttered, "Twenty-five," you skid to a stop in front of him. He reaches out and takes the paper, smoothing it out and turning it right side up. You can tell when he gets to the end of a line by the way his eyes dart back and forth, and you can guess at which line he's on by the state of the furrow between his brows. When he gets to the end, he sets the paper down.

"What is this?" he asks with false calm.

"Read the header, dude. It's my report card." You're not doing yourself any favors, but damn, that felt good.

"Don't sass me, Dirk. You'll regret it."

Every word out of your father's mouth is an armor piercing bullet to your cool, collected facade. "Oh, did it _sound_  like I was sassing you? My bad. I'll try not to do it again."

"Could you pass the salt, dear," your mother says to your father, but he ignores her completely.

"If you're going to live under my roof, eat my food, and wear the clothes that _I_ buy, then the least you can do is actually _try_ in school, and show me some goddamn respect!" He throws the report card down on the table and jabs a finger into it. "Two A's, two C's and three D's? A GPA that low is hardly enough to _graduate_ , let alone get into a respectable college. And the A's are in art and shop class! I’ve spent far too much money on your education for you to just... throw it all away and become some starving artist, grease monkey _faggot_."

You can't help it, you flinch. And now your father knows he's hit a nerve.

"That's right, don't think I haven't wised up to you and your little friend from class. What's his name? Brandon? German project my ass. If you'd actually been doing schoolwork, you wouldn't have gotten a goddamn D! Is that the reason? Huh?"

He's out of his chair by the time he finishes, and in your face, but you refuse to back down.

"Look, I'll get my GED if I have to," you try and placate him, desperate to get off the subject of your supposed sexuality. "I'll take the ACT, the SAT, whatever, and I promise I'll ace 'em. You know I'm smarter than any of the dumbasses at my high school."

(And it's true. According to the standardized tests, you're that intelligent and then some. But high IQ's and standardized test scores don't necessarily translate to high grades, and you've never been interested in the strictly measured plan your father had set for your life—the one that included you as high school valedictorian with a master's in economics from an Ivy League university.)

"If you're that smart, why didn't you apply yourself in the first place?"

"Maybe because I don't–" you start to reply, but he cuts you off.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Dirk? You were supposed to be somebody I could be _proud_ of. Not this arrogant, ungrateful delinquent who wasted every opportunity he was ever given."

"Would you just–"

"If the tattoos and the graffiti weren't enough, now you're ditching classes? Drinking at the club, and having sex with strangers?" Oh fuck, you didn't know he knew about that last one. "My father wouldn't have tolerated _any_ of that behavior!"

The longer he talks, the louder he gets, until by the end, he's practically apoplectic. "Why can't you just be a _man_ , Dirk?"

You see red.

It's one of those things you'll look back on and wish you could reverse time to prevent it happening. One of many. You open your mouth, and the words simply fall out. You don’t realize until halfway through that it's a mistake, and by then, it's too late.

"Be a man, huh?" you grit out. "Sure. After all, I've got an excellent role model in you, the guy who ran away to Canada to dodge the draft, and left his little brother to take his place and _die_."

There is a brief, horrified silence, in which your stomach drops like it does in that moment when you crest the top of a rollercoaster, and then your father's fist is crashing toward your face. You're too startled to dodge.

"How dare you?" he roars at you as white-hot pain blossoms from your cheekbone and across the bridge of your nose. "How fucking _dare_ you?!"

You reel, slumped back against the refrigerator, sucking air hard through your mouth to try and keep from vomiting as blood pours from your nose and down your throat. It's only with concentrated effort that you're able to focus your eyes enough to see that he's crying. For a brief moment you feel a surge of guilt, but then he lunges at you again and wraps his hand around your throat to shake you, his thumb pressing into the cartilaginous tissue hard enough to make you choke, and–

No. You've had enough. Fuck what he says; you _are_ a man, and you’re strong enough to fight back.

So you do.

\--

An hour later, you're trembling so hard you feel as if you're shaking apart. It hurts when you breathe, your lip is busted and swollen, and your nose is almost certainly broken. Again.

The hard concrete grit of the curb you're sitting on digs into your ass, but at least the evening air is warm on your bare chest. (You'd stripped off your shirt to stanch the blood trickling from your nose and mouth.)  One of your eyes is swollen half-shut, but through the other you can see your mother silhouetted against the blinds of the kitchen window. When she realizes you're watching her, she steps away and the blinds she'd pulled aside fall back into place. She has no right to act concerned for you. She'd stood by during the fight, stone-faced and motionless, and she hadn't said a word. Not even when your father had beaten the shit out of you, disowned you, and evicted you.

If she'd ever truly loved you, she wouldn't have let this happen.

In the distance, a pair of headlights crests the hill and steadily approaches, ignoring the speed limit and stop signs that litter the twee suburban neighborhood. The car belongs to Brandon, your ex-best friend and occasional pot dealer. You haven't spoken to him since that stupid German project a month ago. You would have rathered almost anyone else be the one to rescue you, but Brandon was the only one with a car who was willing to come pick you up and let you crash at his place for a while. Because, oh yeah, you're fucking _homeless_ now.

(It's okay. You've never felt like you fit in here at your parents', like you were some ratty old sofa that clashed with the high-class decor.)

"And here's Prince Charming to save the day," you call out to Brandon as his car crunches to a stop in front of you. "My hero."

Brandon leans out the window and frowns. "Hey, dude. Not that it ain't nice to see you, but d'ya think you could cool it on the gay shit?"

Your gaze drops to your feet and you flashback to that afternoon in Brandon's bedroom, when the two of you had ditched your project for a stolen bottle of whiskey, and you'd tried to kiss him. It hadn’t ended well. "Yeah," you say, short and bitter, "sure." No homo—as if you needed a reminder.

At least Brandon seems appeased. His car door slams shut, and his footsteps come crunching through the gravel as he approaches. When you look up, you see he’s offered a hand to pull you up. It's... progress.

Even with his help, it takes a moment for you to get upright, and you have to hold onto his shoulder to keep from falling. You peel the ruined shirt away from your face to spit a fat gobbet of blood and mucus onto the pavement.

"Jeeeeesus," Brandon sucks in through his teeth and whistles. "He really fucked you up, didn't he?"

You shoot him a crooked, bloody smile. "You should see the other guy. I got in a couple of good hits, chipped a tooth and shit. Kidney shot. Fucker'll be pissing blood for a week."

"Sounds like he deserved it."

The argument and what your father had done to you come drifting back, and your heart starts beating faster, your hands reflexively clenching into fists.

"That and more," you say quietly.

Brandon clears his throat and shifts on his feet, all awkward sympathy. You can't really blame him for not knowing how to handle you, not after the way you came out to him. "Anyway, this all you got?" he asks, motioning at the meager pile of your possessions. You have your turntables, amps, and other assorted music equipment, a rolled-up futon mattress, and a black garbage bag stuffed full of clothes and toiletries. It's all you were able to pack in the thirty minutes your dad gave you, but then again, it's all you really want or need.

"That's it."

Though your ribs are bruised and sore, you suck it up and give Brandon a hand loading your equipment in the trunk of his car. The bag of clothes goes in the front passenger seat. When you're done, you stretch out on the back bench with the futon mattress.

"Last call," Brandon tells you as he slides into the driver's seat, casting a meaningful glance back in the direction of your parents' house. "Any parting words? Speak now, or forever hold your peace."

Exhaustion is beginning to overtake you. Though anger still dominates your emotions, _betrayal_ is seeping in around the corners, coming from the small, naive part of you that until now was convinced that no matter what kind of verbal abuse he hurled at you, your father would never physically harm you. Now that the illusion is shattered, there's no going back. You don't trust yourself to speak. Instead, you lift your arm and flip your childhood an unrepentant finger.

Not the most eloquent of goodbyes, but a fitting one.


	3. Coming to Terms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Individual warnings for this chapter: non-graphic description of childbirth.

\-- Various, 1995-1996 --

Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you're fucked. Twice over, actually, thanks to Murphy's Law.

You've known for sure that you're pregnant for a while now: if the missed periods, swollen and tender breasts, and daily vomiting hadn't tipped you off, then the positive pee stick would have. But you've done the math, and it's only been four months. You shouldn't be showing like you're six months pregnant. Now you're at your overdue first doctor's appointment, receiving an ultrasound, and the obstetrician is confirming what you'd suspected. What you'd feared.

"Oh, wonderful! See that second little blob? You're having twins!"

She sounds so cheerful. So _happy_ , as if she hasn't just handed you what basically amounts to a pink slip on life. You'd only recently convinced yourself that things were okay, that you could scrape by with one baby on your own. There is no way on earth you could handle two. God, you wish you could have a drink.

You've been quiet for too long. The ob-gyn seems to pick up on your distress, and her smile falters. "That's great!" you blurt with feigned enthusiasm, since there’s no point in dragging her down, too. The only one with the problem here is you. You keep up the act while she talks to you about your diet and exercise routine, and when she sends you off with a whole rainforest-worth of paper pamphlets and a jug of prenatal vitamins. It isn't until you're alone in the safety of your car that you let yourself break down and cry.

You can't do this. You _can't_.

Your first semester as a Ph.D student in computer science begins this fall, and you're registered for classes on advanced algorithms, theory of computation, probability and statistics, and high-performance computing. It's not going to leave you with a lot of free time. It wouldn't be so bad, were your tuition and stipend not sponsored by SkaiaNet. They've invested a lot of time and money in you, and if you've learned one thing in the past couple of years, it's that you do not let SkaiaNet down. You don't think they'd be too pleased if you took off to raise a couple of kids. And without SkaiaNet, you have nothing.

Five years ago, things might have been different. You could have asked for your parents' help and gotten everything they had to offer. But five years ago was when your father was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's, and in the brief time since then his condition has degenerated so rapidly, so alarmingly, that he requires your mother's constant care. Your poor mother has nothing left over to give you.

There are really only two options left for you, and neither of them is appealing.

First, there's abortion. You've always thought of yourself as the liberal, academic type, and staunchly pro-choice. But when it's _your_ pregnancy in question, you're not sure you can go through with it. You're not sure you can blithely terminate not one, but two fetuses.

The other option is, you can find someone else to take one or both of the babies. Adopting them out weighs lighter on your conscience than the idea of aborting them, but you don't want to risk them ending up in the troubled foster system. So to whom else can you turn? The father?

You laugh-sob at the notion. The father, from what little you remember of him, is a cocky, mouthy young kid whose only known means of income is deejaying at a raunchy college club. There’s certainly no way a guy like him would be capable of taking care of a child.

Right?

You let out a sigh, plunking your forehead against your steering wheel. Worrying over it is giving you a headache. You'll mull over your options later, when you can think more rationally and you're feeling a little better. Right now, you're craving peanut butter, and there's a huge bag of Reese's cups in your apartment that's calling your name.

 

Later that night, you're lying awake in bed with your hands splayed lightly across the swell of your belly, when you feel it—the faintest of fluttering kicks. At first you're sure it's indigestion, but it soon becomes clear to you that it's too light and regular to be anything but one of the babies moving inside you.

Up until now, you've felt a sort of vague, resigned horror every time you were reminded of your pregnancy and the fact that it's not some bad dream you can snap your fingers and wake up from. But now, in this moment, you feel... peaceful. For the first time, you feel like maybe this isn't the insurmountable disaster you've made it out to be.

You hold your breath until the fluttering comes again. When it does, you smile.

You'll make it, one way or the other.

\--

The good sentiments to which you try so desperately to cling only last until the end of your second trimester. Then you hit another precipitous hormone shift, and your general mood swings right back around into despair.

It's the first week in December, and you're eight months pregnant with twins, a boy and a girl. People say things to you like 'Congratulations!' and 'Who's the father?' and you have to grind your teeth to keep from screaming at them that you're miserable and alone, and why won't anyone just _help_ you? When you'd told your superiors at SkaiaNet about your pregnancy, their response was basically, "That's nice," with the underlying threat that, were you to quit your Ph.D, your standing with them would be terminated. Right now, you're making only your 25k-a-year stipend, but the position they’ve promised you upon completion of the program is worth 110k a year starting salary. You cannot afford to lose that job.

There's no putting off your decision any longer. Either you arrange to give one or both babies up for adoption, or you find the father. But how the hell do you approach a teenaged boy about something like this? Walk up to him and say, "Here's your kid, now take 'em"?

Unfortunately, you're out of time.

"Ma'am?" says the older gentleman sitting next to you on the city bus.

"Hmm?"

"I believe your water just broke."

At first, you don't believe him. You were only two percent effaced at your checkup yesterday, and your due date is still four weeks away, so there's no way you're ready, right? But you have been carrying rather low, and your Braxton Hicks contractions have been pretty strong the past few days, and— _holy shit_ you can feel hot amniotic fluid _running down your leg_.

You go from fairly relaxed to sickened and mortified and panicked in a heartbeat—and speak of the devil, a small but painful contraction shudders through you.

"Shit, shit, _shit_ ," you groan, gripping the handles of your purse tight. This can _not_ be happening to you right now. Your chosen hospital is on the other side of town, your doctor is on vacation until tomorrow, and the duffel bag you'd packed to bring with you during labor is sitting on the counter in your apartment. You _knew_ you shouldn't have risked leaving home today, even if you were out of food and restless as fuck.

"Hey, now," says the man, placing a wrinkled hand on your shoulder, and you jump. You'd forgotten he was there. "Everything's going to be fine. Let me call us a cab, and I'll come with you and make sure you get to the hospital alright."

You turn to face him, surprised. "You would do that?"

"Well, I could hardly just leave you here," the man says, his lined face drawn into a serious and yet encouraging smile.

"Oh god, thank you _so_ much," you sob. You have never been more grateful for the occasional glimmer of truth in the myth that is Southern hospitality.

Unfortunately, the man is only able to come with you as far as the emergency room, and although Aisha brings you your duffel, she's unable to stay, and so you have no one to hold your hand as you scream and cry and push your children from your body. Instead, you grip the rails of your bed until your knuckles turn white. The doctor and nurses keep telling you you're doing well, you're almost there, just one more push, but you don't even know their names. You're not even sure they know yours without looking at your chart. And so you give birth to your son, followed (eight minutes and one calendar date later) by your daughter, and you're surrounded by people, but you are still so, so alone.

At least the babies are healthy and perfect and beautiful. Okay—not beautiful at first, but you won't hold it against them. They've basically been pickled the last eight months. Once they're clean and dry and wrapped in warm blankets, a little less scrunched and red, they're not so bad. They're both on the small side, about five pounds, with newborn-gray eyes and only the faintest wisps of blonde hair. You can see bits and pieces of yourself in both of them. Other features are more unfamiliar, and you wish you remembered their father well enough to place them for certain. The ears have got to be his.

Since there's no one to argue names with you, you get to call them anything you want. On the girl's birth certificate you put 'Roselyn', and on the boy's, 'David'. Each name has enough nicknames that they'll be able to pick one that suits them when they're old enough. For now, you just call them Dave and Rose. A little old-fashioned, maybe, but classic and without much room for hurtful classroom taunting.

When the three of you are released from the hospital a week later, you call a cab and go home to a silent and empty apartment. A thin layer of dust has settled on the kitchen table, so you wipe it down before setting the twins' carriers on it. You collapse onto a kitchen chair, sore and exhausted, and rest your chin on your palms to look at them. They're so small. So unbelievably tiny. They're too young to do anything now other than sleep, eat and poop. They don't even cry all that much. Yet. But despite all the tips you'd read, and everything the nurses had told you about caring for them, you still feel as if you have no idea what to do.

Why don't they come with a manual?

 _The Care and Maintenance of your Newborn_.

Thank you for purchasing your new Baby Boy and/or Girl! We hope you'll enjoy the next eighteen years of wiping asses and setting up college funds. Let’s get started!

Chapter One: Troubleshooting.

You laugh a little to yourself, but it isn't because you're happy. It's because you're lost and scared and you don't know what to do, and SkaiaNet called to tell you they want you back in class and working the minute you're able to put the babies in a daycare. That's only six weeks from now. You don't even know how you'll _afford_ daycare for two children on your paltry income. And you still can't have a drink to take the edge off the hysteria, because you're breastfeeding the chompy little poop factories.

But despite everything, you love them with all your heart. You've loved them from the instant you laid eyes on them, and if their father saw them, you're convinced he'd love them too. You wish so, so badly that you were capable of giving them both everything they need, but you aren't.

Maybe... Maybe _he_ can make up the difference.

The obvious caveat, however, is that you have to choose. Which child do you keep, and which do you give up? And what kind of mother are you for even considering that choice? There's no criterion on which to base your decision that wouldn't make you feel like some calculating, Machiavellian monster.

But hey, what's new?

If a choice is inevitable, you might as well go with the simplest reasoning. The babies' father would probably have more in common with Dave than with Rose. Your gaze rests uneasily on your son, and in that moment, though you can feel your heart crumbling in your chest, you make your decision.

\--

You hold out for as long as you can, giving Dave the chance to grow and you the chance to mourn, but eventually the time comes and you can wait no longer.

Finding your children's father presents only a minor challenge. When you call the number on the business card he’d given you, an irritable-sounding older man hangs up on you the moment you mention his name: Dirk Strider. Undeterred, you go back to the club where you'd met him and flash the card at a couple of bartenders. You use your womanly wiles to convince them that you're interested in hiring Dirk for a DJ gig, and in a matter of minutes, you have an address. Easy peasy.

There's a cafe across the street from the shabby building where he's living, so you pick out a seat by the window and perch on the edge of it an hour or so before he's due to come home from his day job. If you let your mind wander for too long, you start to worry about the babies, at home with a babysitter, and so you distract yourself by guzzling coffee and rehearsing what you're going to say to Dirk. You grow more jittery with every runthrough.

Dirk finally walks by just before dusk. You recognize him as soon as you see him. Automotive grease stains litter his bare, freckled arms, and headphones cover his rather prodigious ears. He nods along to his music, twitching his fingers subconsciously as if he's spinning records in his head. He's _so_ young. Painfully young. You almost rethink the idea of offering custody of Dave to him at all, but ultimately your conscience wins out. You have to give Dirk a chance to know his son before you resort to adoption. If he's not interested in taking Dave, or if he's unable to support him, you'll take the baby back. And then you suppose you'll just... do what you have to do. At least you can live with the knowledge that you tried.

You throw down some cash and follow Dirk, tailing him from a short distance inside the building and up the stairs, staying out of sight as best you can. He stops at the very top floor, and you watch from around the corner as his front door closes behind him.

Apartment 1025. All it takes now is for you to knock on the door, show him the Polaroid you have in your purse, and start the conversation you've dreaded having ever since you found out you were pregnant.

Just a few more feet.

Come on.

You can't do it. You try, and you can't. It's only six steps further to the threshold, but your feet are like leaden weights, rooted to the floor. Because when you knock on the door, then what? How do you explain to Dirk the magnitude of your fuckup? How do you tell him that his life as he knows it is over? The words are all there in your head, but you don't know how to say them, and no amount of preparation could make this easy.

Once, back in undergrad, a professor had called you a coward because you'd refused to take any risks in your hypotheses. You'd been so angry at the time. Now, you have no choice but to admit that he was right. You _are_ a coward. And the only way left to you is the coward's way out.

You turn slowly and walk away, your jaw clenched tight with shame and misery. If you only have a few more hours with your son, you may as well make the best of them.

 

The next morning, before the sun comes up, you find yourself standing before Dirk's door once again with Dave's carrier held in hand. He's sleeping peacefully, innocent of any inkling of what’s about to happen to him. He doesn't wake when you lean over him and whisper apologies into his soft skin, or when your tears land on his upturned face. "I love you," you say, and your heart breaks. "Don't ever forget that. I love you so goddamn much. I'm sorry I have to leave you, baby boy. I wish I knew any other way, but I don't, so this is it. I'll... I'll miss you."

Dave stirs a little when you stroke his hair, eyes cracking open to slits. It's time.

You leave one last kiss on his forehead, pull up the sun hood on his carrier and then turn to leave, clutching the handrails all the way down the stairs because you don't trust yourself not to miss a step through your tears. He starts to wail even before you've exited the building, almost like he knows he may never see you again. It takes everything in your power not to run back to him. Instead, you linger by the building exit just long enough to hear a door yanked open several floors above you, and an exclamation of surprise. Then you stagger, blinking, into the brilliant morning light. Somehow you find it in yourself to flag down a taxi, and you go home and cry into your daughter's soft baby hair until she cries with you.

Congratulations, you piece of shit; you've abandoned your son.

\--

The next few days are like swimming through molasses. You barely have the energy to take care of poor Rose, much less keep up with your own hygiene or your classes. Every time you look at yourself in the mirror, you burst into tears. Your red, blotchy face and your stringy hair are your badges of shame.

What is wrong with you? Why can't you just be normal, and make normal people decisions? Why can't you be happy?

It's almost as if you only have the capacity to make poor choices. Which is why you aren't terribly surprised when, after a week without Dave, the last shred of your resolve snaps. You open the dusty liquor cabinet, let your fingers glide along the bottles you haven't touched in over a year, and then you drink yourself stupid.

  
Light.

Pounding.

Your head is throbbing. Someone's screaming hoarsely, and you wave your arm, as if that will shut them up. The pounding continues, and the closer you drift to consciousness, the more you become aware that it's not just inside your head. Someone is pounding at the front door.

You grip the leg of the kitchen table and pull yourself unsteadily to your feet. "I'm coming, I'm coming," you groan.

The screaming doesn't stop. Its source is inside the apartment, not outside. Rose.

 _Shit_.

"Oh god, oh baby, I'm so sorry," you say when you find her in her carrier on the floor, hungry and cold and two bowel movements past a diaper change. You need to take care of her, but your hangover is such a rager that you can barely stay on your feet, and the person at the door is still knocking. "I'll be right back," you tell her, and you stagger over to the door.

You pause just as your fingers brush the knob. Who could it be? The landlord, ready to kick you out for the noise disturbance? What if it's Dirk? You didn't think you left any concrete trails back to you, but there's always the chance you slipped up somehow. And if he got the authorities to dig deep enough into the medical records, there's no way you could hide for long.

There's a peephole on your apartment door, but you can't bring yourself to put your eye to it, to confirm that fear. Instead you back away, relegating the person behind it to Schrödinger's Babydaddy forever.

"C'mere, Rosie," you sniff. "Gotta get you fed and cleaned up."

She stops crying eventually, and the person at the door stops knocking. You feel a little safer. But now you're painfully aware that you can't continue to live like this. You haven't showered or spoken to anyone or gone to classes in a week, and you owe better to Rose. To yourself.

You've got to move out of this place. Go back to New York, maybe, transfer to a university up there with a good CS doctoral program and enjoy whatever time with your parents that they have left. Let them meet the granddaughter you never told them about.

Leave Houston, and your son, behind.

Because Dirk hasn't given him up. The next month, you alternate between preparing to move, and checking in on them from afar. Dirk is so young and so _delinquent_ -looking that you'd half expected him to try and abandon Dave himself, but instead he seems to have taken the baby in without hesitation, as if he'd been meant to raise him all along.

You attempt to convince yourself you're not guilty, that you're not jealous of Dirk, who's able to hold and cuddle your son when you might never have that chance again.

But you've always been a bad liar.


	4. Dad is a Full-Time Gig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this awesome [fanart](http://zahhaked.tumblr.com/post/96595148493/the-amazing-and-totally-underrated-shandyscribs) for the previous chapter by the lovely and talented chromyrose! (Thank you again!)
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: homophobic slurs, accidental child abuse.

\-- July, 1996 --

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you are a soldier behind enemy lines. A lone wolf infiltrating the pack. A Romulan lurking deep in Vulcan space.

In other words, you're a young, single father with tattoos and piercings in a mall full of yuppies.

You feel faintly ridiculous for using those metaphors, even confined to your own thoughts. It's just the _mall_ , for fuck's sake. Yet thanks to your stupid neurotic jerk brain, bringing your baby son here with you is an ordeal.

It doesn't help that you're a walking cautionary tale for poor choices. If there's an easy road to becoming a parent, you took the scenic footpath straight through the quicksand and into a thorn bush. Normally it doesn't bother you that much, as your mental armor is sufficient to shrug off other people's judgments. Here in the mall, though, you're surrounded by parents who've done things 'right'. They’re overwhelmingly in their late twenties or early thirties, most of them married, with designer diaper bags and expensive strollers—everything you aren't or don't have. You're just a poor, inexperienced teenager, and next to these picture-perfect little families, you have never felt so inadequate or ashamed.

Dave squirms in his carrier, blithely unaware of the raincloud hovering over your head. He looks excited, his head swiveling left and right to take in the new sights and sounds all around him. Nothing seems to faze him.

"Well, little dude... if you can handle it, I guess I can, too." You allow yourself a small smile when Dave snaps to attention at the sound of your voice. You still feel uncomfortable and exposed here, but you'll deal. "To RadioShack we go."

Of course things don't go the way you'd planned. When you get to the store, the single-board microcontroller you'd ordered is apparently missing.

"I'm sure it's in the back somewhere, sir; it's just been misplaced," says the pizza-faced kid behind the counter. ('Sir'? He can't be more than a year or two younger than you. Maybe it's because you're carrying a baby.) "I'll go look for it, if you want to wait."

Dave seems restless, his light blond eyebrows scrunched. You should probably take him somewhere you can sit down, maybe feed him and play with him a little. "S'okay," you say reluctantly. "I'll just come back in thirty or so."

"Not a problem, sir, and once again, I apologize for the inconvenience."

Your departure is well timed, as approximately three seconds after you're out the door, Dave begins to shriek and cry. Several people glance your way at the sudden racket, and you get the creeping sense they're judging you with their eyes. "Come on, lil' man, shoosh," you comfort Dave, to no avail. "Are you hungry? Do you— _oh_." You catch a whiff of the telltale _eau de diaper_ , and it's fresh. At least that's a problem easily solved. "Yeah, alright, let's find a place to get you changed."

A couple of women give you fleeting looks when you walk into the family bathroom, especially the lady who's nursing her baby in the outer area, but hey, it ain't your fault you don't have tits. The men's room isn't exactly well-equipped for baby care. You blush and duck past them into the main restroom area, where there are a couple of fancy wicker changing tables. By this point, you've changed enough diapers that you consider yourself a pro, and you've got Dave clean and dressed and back in his carrier in under five minutes. (He doesn't pee on you this time, thank god.)

Before you leave, you set the carrier beside you on the counter and scrub your hands with the hottest water the sink can manage. You catch sight of your reflection in the mirror across from you and you're almost taken aback by your appearance.

God, you're young. It's not like you being eighteen was ever a thing that stopped being true. Now, though, you have delicate, bruise-purple bags under your eyes from nights spent soothing Dave, and stubble left over from your rush to get both of you ready this morning. You'd only had time to blowdry your hair, and unstyled, it's soft and faintly wavy. With the messenger bag full of baby paraphernalia over your shoulder and Dave wriggling next to you, you look like... Well, you kind of look like a _dad_. You're not sure whether you feel pleased about it, or alarmed. Maybe both. You suppose there are worse things to look like, considering this is _you_ now: Dirk Strider, broke and single and already a father at just this side of eighteen. Not a role you'd have chosen for yourself. It's hard, oh god, it's _so hard_ , and sometimes when Dave gets colicky and won't sleep through the night, all you want to do is curl up on the floor and cry. But you're going to survive. You and Dave are going to make it, and you're going to be happy—fuck anyone who says otherwise.

 _Yeah, keep telling yourself that, and maybe someday you'll believe it_.

 

To kill some more time while they hunt down your part, you bypass RadioShack and make a detour for the mini-playground in the center of the mall. You figure Dave could use some stimulation and a bottle. You're leery around the other parents making use of the area, so you sit as far away from them as possible, on the remotest bench. You hitch one leg up and rest your foot on the opposite thigh, which makes a nice little basket that Dave slots neatly into. He's sort of wobbly sitting up, but he's great at holding up his head and looking all around him at things that interest him. There's plenty here to catch his attention. He watches older babies toddling around, playing peekaboo from behind huge, brightly colored foam animals, and sliding down the tiny little baby slide.

"Babababa," he says. He's not old enough to point yet, but he flings his arm in their general direction like he wants to join in.

"Not yet, little dude," you tell him. "Not for a while." He's not even crawling yet; the most he can achieve is rocking on all fours and the occasional alarming lunge across the playpen. According to your embarrassingly pawed-through baby book, it shouldn't be long, though. Then you get to go through and babyproof the rest of the apartment. You're not looking forward to all the vacuuming you'll have to do to appease the social workers still dogging you.

(Your mother's brother Paulie had pitched in to buy you the vacuum. He lives all the way in Boston, and you only ever saw the guy once or twice a year when you were a kid, but he's always been your favorite relative and he was happy to help you out. He never mentions your parents when he calls.)

Dave starts getting fussy again and lets out a few high, thin whines. "Alright, Miss Piggy, I can take a hint." You dig around in your bag for your thermos, and upon finding it, empty it into a bottle. It’s still warm, which is good, because the little guy's kind of a priss about the temperature of his formula. "Here you go." He gurgles delightedly and makes grabby hands when you hold it out to him, which is fucking adorable. You grin hard enough to make your eyes crinkle at the corners. Shit, you wish you'd remembered to grab your shades before you left. God forbid someone should catch you emoting.

In fact, somebody does. A young woman a few years your senior is looking for a place to sit, and when she sees you, for whatever bizarre reason she pushes her stroller over and settles down close by. She keeps glancing your way as she removes a baby boy about Dave's age from the stroller and bounces him in her lap.

_Please don't talk to me, please don't talk to me, please don't talk to me–_

"Hi," she says. She holds up one of her baby’s fat little arms and 'waves' hello. Crap.

"Hey," you grunt. That's all you're able to get out before your brain short circuits and shuts down. The woman is smiling at you expectantly, like she's waiting for you to continue the conversation, but you have no idea what's supposed to come next. Do you talk about yourself? Your kids? It's been so long since you've made small talk with anyone other than Uncle Paulie or Dave (who's not much of a conversationalist) that you're at a total loss. Not that you were ever big on social graces.

Dave sees the other baby and drops his bottle. The other baby lets out a screech, and he and Dave start babbling off and on at each other. You wish adult conversation was that easy.

"Your little boy's adorable," says the woman, after it's clear the onus is on her to get you talking. You're used to hearing 'look how precious!' and variations thereupon from random strangers in public, but it still takes you by surprise in a pleasant sort of way. Somebody thinks your kid is cute, _shit yeah_.

"Thanks. Uh, your lil' guy is pretty handsome too," you venture.

The woman flashes you a brilliant grin. "Thank you!"

This is going better than expected. You've always had a small following of no-account friends and flunkies, due to your effortless cool and your ability to manipulate people, but charm and personality have always been your dump stats. That someone 'normal' is taking a genuine interest is... encouraging.

You clear your throat. "What's yours's name?"

"This is Colton, and I'm Marlie. Say hi, Colton!"

"Amamamama!" is Colton's closest approximation.

"Cool. I'm Dirk, and this is Dave." Dave's response to hearing his name is to giggle and smack his fat baby arms against your thighs. Little scamp.

"It seems like he knows his name pretty well," Marlie points out. "Has he said any words yet? 'Mama' or 'Dada' or anything?"

"Nah, but he will say 'Baba' occasionally. That's what the lady who watches him while I'm at work calls herself."

(Mrs. Yurieva is the matronly older woman three floors down, who serves as a stopgap babysitter for you and a couple of other broke parents in your building. She speaks with a nigh-indecipherable accent and coos at Dave in Russian every time you bring him over. She refuses to accept any more than half the weekly rate of the cheapest legit daycare, which, conveniently, is all you can afford to pay her.)

"Colton says 'Mama', but not 'Dada' yet. Right, little buddy?" Marlie addresses the baby in her lap. "Poor Dada."

For the first time, you notice the two gaudy bands on Marlie's left ring finger, which answers the question of whether she's been trying to flirt with you. You relax without realizing you'd ever tensed.

"Does Colton crawl yet?" you ask, trying for conversational.

"Not really, but sometimes he'll scoot around on his belly and drag himself places."

"Oh. Yeah, I've seen Dave do that a couple of times. If he's feeling real lazy, though, he'll just roll wherever it is he wants to go." That shit's hilarious. The first time you'd seen him roll across the playpen to retrieve a toy, you’d cracked up laughing so hard you pulled a muscle.

"Is Dave's mom around?"

Your head jerks up. No one's ever asked you about Dave's mother so bluntly—or at all, for that matter, aside from the DA's office and your social worker. You're not sure how to handle it. You're not sure what you should say. You get the feeling that starting your answer off with 'So I had this drunk one-night-stand' wouldn't do anything to ease the awkwardness.

"Nah," you murmur, deciding on an abridged version of the truth. "She left Dave on my doorstep and she, ah... She took off with his twin sister, Rose. Didn't leave any means for me to get in touch."

Marlie's eyes go wide, and then her face softens. "I'm so sorry to hear that," she says. "I can't imagine what that must be like."

"It's cool," you lie through a careful poker face. "I mean, I never met my daughter, so it's not like I can miss her, right?"

(Every time you take out the Polaroid their mother left with you and you look at that tiny, smiling baby girl, your chest aches.)

Marlie plainly isn't convinced, but she has the good grace to infer that you don't want to talk about it anymore. She smiles down at Dave, who is fascinatedly examining his toes through his socks. "For what it's worth, it seems like you're doing a good job on your own, Dirk."

Your breath catches in surprise; personal compliments from strangers aren't something you get. It means more to you than you'd ever be willing to admit.

"I. Uh... Thank you." You never were any good at accepting praise, despite your healthy ego. _Probably because it's paired with a raging inferiority complex_.

"It's no problem," Marlie says, and stands, pulling Colton up with her. "Anyway, I've gotta get a move on. I hope this isn't rude, but I just thought... You looked like you needed a friend."

Under different circumstances, you might have been offended if someone said they pitied you, but you're so starved for positive attention these days that you're actually sorry to see her go. "It was nice to meet you," you say. Your voice doesn't come out as flat as you'd like.

"You too," she smiles. "I hope you find Rose someday."

"So do I."

 

Dave quickly drains his bottle when you hand it back to him, and when he's done, you burp him over your shoulder sans spit-up rag. (Though your baby book had talked about spit-up as an inescapable fact of life, Dave's done it maybe once. Ever. Miracle baby, fucking seriously.) When that's over with, you force your tired body to its feet and brave heading back to Radio Shack. Thankfully, when you get there, your microcontroller has been found. You pay for it with forty dollars you'd pilfered from the roll of bills Dave's mother had left, carefully weighed against your calculated future expenditures, and the moment you have the receipt, you wave away the clerk's apologies and hightail it out of there. No point in spending more time in the mall than you have to.

Your ride home is another gift from Uncle Paulie: a 1982 Chevy S-10 pickup he'd hooked you up with for roughly 800 bucks. It's a tiny little piece of shit, and half rust, but it gets you where you need to go. You can almost push the undersized, 84 hp engine up to time-travel speeds. Of course, when Dave is in the truck with you, you hover around 50, tops. A couple of assholes honk at you, but the reduced speed keeps the engine knock down, meaning Dave stays calm and quiet the whole way home and all the way up the ten flights of stairs to your apartment. You really wish they'd fix the goddamn elevator.

"Home, sweet home," you pant when you get to the top.

It's been three months since you awoke to the end of your life as you knew it, in the form of a baby on your doorstep, and it still takes you by surprise how different your place is. Where there once had been clutter and dirty clothes and the scent of stale weed, there's now a playpen scattered with brightly colored toys, and a faint whiff of baby formula. You think most of your old friends would laugh, if they ever came around anymore. Hell, Brandon had, when you'd told him about Dave. The faggot who'd come onto him had knocked up some chick? Surely the very pinnacle of irony.

Ha fucking ha.

Now that you're home and able to relax, you're suddenly aware of how exhausted you are. Working full time and caring for a seven-month-old baby has cured your insomnia, and moreover, it's instilled a constant deep ache in your bones you thought it was impossible for a kid your age to get. Sometimes, when you're bent over the engine block of a car and up to your elbows in grime, you feel as old as Madge, the leathery fifty-something woman who runs the auto shop.

("My late husband named the place 'Hooper and Sons' when we had our two boys," Madge had explained to you upon your hiring, "but he did it a little premature. Greg's an accountant, and last I heard from Chris, the band he's touring with had stopped off in Little Rock. Now, I may not know much about fixin' cars beyond changin' the occasional spark plug, but I know how to run a business, and Leon and Danny here have been mechanics since before you was born, so I figure we do alright. Not that a little young blood ain't good now and again," she'd cooed and pinched your cheek. You'd liked her immediately. She hadn't even blinked the first time you'd slunk in all nervous to pick up a paycheck with Dave in your arms, just grinned and hung a pine tree-shaped air freshener off the foot of his onesie.)

So yeah, you're tired as fuck, but today is your one day off, and you promised yourself you'd take advantage of it and not just sleep it away. You need time to be a teenager, to set aside work and parenthood for a minute and do something that makes you happy. If you don't, you're afraid you'll flip your shit and have a meltdown.

CPS would just love that, you tell yourself.

Electronics tinkering it is.

Your current project is a set of turntables, custom built, using parts cannibalized from several older decks. The microcontroller you'd bought today is meant to replace the old one that had come pre-installed on the main deck. The old microcontroller is small and limited in its features. The possibilities with the new one are almost endless. You have ideas for BPM-linked light display accessories, auto-scratching, intelligent syncing routines and more, but the programming comes later. First you have to solder the new microcontroller into place.

"Aaaaaaiieee!" Dave screeches from his carrier, snapping you out of your fantasies. Oh right, your baby.

"Hey lil' buddy," you murmur, leaning over him, and he reaches his pudgy little hands up to smoosh your cheeks. "Can't forget about you, can I?"

You don't trust yourself to leave him unattended in the playpen for long—you've gotten lost in your work for hours at a time in the past—so you set your turntables on one end of your tiny kitchen table and move Dave's carrier to the other end, turned so you can see him. Perfect. You flip on the TV to some weird cartoon about a red-haired scientist kid with an inexplicable Russian accent, and toss a couple of his plushies and rattles in the carrier with him. That oughtta keep him occupied for an hour, at least.

The first step of your project is to desolder the old microcontroller from the PCB. There's a clearance of about 1/8 of an inch between the PCB and the old chip, so it's delicate work. You carefully press the tip of the soldering gun to the old solder, heat it up, and the braided copper of the wick sucks up the melted solder like magic. One by one you desolder all 32 pins, until the chip comes free. Bam, motherfucker. There's a few shavings of solder left in the holes after the pins come out. You have a tool for removing them, a delicate little dental pick, but it's in the kit under your bed. You toss the soldering gun back on the table with a grunt and jog off to retrieve it.

For such a neurotic and occasionally OCD guy, you're pretty disorganized. Your kit is a jumble of tools and wires, and you have to dig around for a while to find what you're looking for. Finally you locate the tiny pick (at the very bottom of the kit, of course), and you clamber to your feet to resume work on your project.

A crash and a high, shrill scream stop you in your tracks. _Dave_. And then, like somebody flipped a switch, you start running.

Your socks skid on the linoleum when you barrel around the corner, but by the time you reach him, it's too late. Dave is shrieking, his tiny body spasming with pain, and your soldering gun is on the floor. You left it on. You left the soldering gun on, and within reach of a _baby_.

"Oh god, oh god," you chant under your breath, and you carefully hold out his arm to inspect the damage. He didn't grab the gun, thank fucking christ. The skin on the back of his hand is angry and red, though, and blistering already, like he'd flung his arm out and rested it on the tip of the gun until his underdeveloped baby reflexes kicked in. His cries are raw and constant.

You can taste bile at the back of your tongue, bitter and acrid. This is your fault. _You did this_. And how are you supposed to fix it? There's 600 dollars left of Dave's money after your purchase today, so you can afford to bring him to the clinic, but what do you say when you get there? They'll want to know how it happened. They'll ask questions, and you're not sure how to answer. If you tell the truth...

If you tell the truth, that it was your negligence which led to Dave's injury, they'll nod and smile sympathetically—right before they call CPS.

You can't bring him to the clinic. Maybe it's selfish, considering you've just proved you can't be trusted with his safety, but you refuse to let them take Dave away from you. You never thought you'd have children (especially considering your strong preference for dudes), but you did, and nothing can change that. Dave is _yours_ , and in the scant few months you've been his guardian, you've formed a bond that it would crush you to break. But you have to do something. Though you're not medically trained by any stretch, you've injured yourself enough times that you have a good working knowledge of burn care. You can treat him on your own, and he'll be fine, and your social worker will never need to know...

You can do this.

 _You can do this_.

His cries quiet out by degrees when you run his hand under cool water, but they never stop completely, and he whimpers when you cover the burn with a thin layer of sterile gauze. It's eleven before he quiets down and you make it to bed, and even then you can't sleep. You end up moving out of your bedroom and camping on the futon, as you do more often than not.

Your baby monitor consists of a pair of cheap Star Wars walkie-talkies, one with the talk button permanently depressed and held down with electrical tape, and the other wired to a car speaker you'd pinched from work. You hear Dave most of the time, but sometimes, on clear nights, you pick up trucker CB chatter. It's older men for the most part, usually bitching about taxes, or their wives, or the price of diesel. You leave the walkie turned on when that happens. It's the only means you have to look into how normal people live their lives. Listening to their problems, and relating to them... it makes you feel like one of them. Just a normal guy, struggling through life one day at a time. You've never really felt like you were 'normal', so it's comforting.

If ever you needed their chatter to distract you from your thoughts, it's tonight. But the interference never comes. It's cloudy, or there's a trough in solar flare activity; either way, all you can hear is Dave's steady breathing and occasional whines. There's just you, and Dave, and your guilt.

What was Dave's mother thinking when she left him with you? What possessed you to think you were ready to care for a baby all on your own? It had been just shy of a year since your dad kicked you out when you found Dave on your doorstep. Maybe some part of you was convinced you could do a better job of childrearing than he had.

Unfortunately, that same hubris is what got Dave hurt. It's long past time to set it aside. Dave is only a baby, and he needs you. You can't take a break from being his father—especially not just 'cause you feel like it. You don't get the luxury of being selfish anymore. Realizing this is part of accepting your responsibilities as a parent; you know that now. You wish so badly that you'd had someone, _anyone_ around who could have just _told_ you, and spared Dave the pain of you figuring it out the hard way, but it's like your dad always said: wish in one hand and shit in the other.

You hate admitting it, but he was right.

" _It seems like you're doing a good job on your own_ ," Marlie had said.

What a joke. Wherever Rose is, you hope she has someone smarter and kinder and stronger than you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirk Strider: well-meaning fuckup.
> 
> Ten points if you spot the cameos in this chapter!


	5. America, This Is You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am now one scene away from completing this fanfic! In light of this development (and in the interests of getting it all posted before my wedding in November), I've made the executive decision to start posting every other day instead of every three days. Hopefully this won't annoy anybody. Without further ado, have chapter 5, one day early!
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: mention of sexual assault, suicide, minor character death.

\-- September, 1997 --

Your name is Roxy, and while you would never say raising a child by yourself while earning a Ph.D and working part-time is easy, sometimes it's fun.

Like when you set up your camera in front of Rose's high chair, and hand her a lemon to eat. The resulting scrunchy-face photos go on your cork board. Or the time you hide in a pile of her stuffed animals screaming 'help me!' until she unburies you, giggling when she pouts. You scoop her up and hug her, and magically, everything is okay.

 

Of course, your daughter isn't without her own moments. The idiosyncrasies in the mental workings of a twenty-month-old make for some pretty hilarious happenings.

Like the time she launches mashed potatoes at you from her high chair, and they splat all over your feet.

"Uh-ohhh," she says, punctuated by giggles.

"It's not 'uh-oh' if you fling stuff on purpose, you little turdmonger," you glare at her. The next glob of potatoes hits you square in the face. "Ugh, whatever, I guess I deserved that." At least her aim is improving.

 

One night, you're ass deep into a project on massively parallel high-performance computing, and so you don't realize Rose has broken out of her playpen again until you feel her tugging on the leg of your sweatpants. "Mama," she says, and you start with fright.

"Holy hell!"

Rose looks up at you, unperturbed, clutching a plush kitten toy with the hand not attached to your pants leg. "Hi, baby, what is it?" you ask, wondering how she'd managed to escape the playpen this time. You'll have to set up a video camera next time and catch her in the act.

Rose doesn't answer, though she sticks out her lower lip in a pout, and you think you can smell poop. Geez, didn't you change her, like, half an hour ago? You glance at the clock. _Three_ hours ago. No wonder she broke out.

"Did you poop in your diaper?" you ask her, bending down to sniff a little closer. Ugh. Oh yeah, definitely.

But to your surprise, she shakes her head, swings her stuffed cat by the tail, and says, "Noooooooo." Huh.

"Mmkay," you hum, playing along. "If you didn't poop in your diaper, then who did?"

She replies in a scarily accurate impression of a TV announcer, " _Boooob Saget!_ "

You blink at her and promptly burst into helpless laughter.

Rose looks bewildered at first, like she isn't sure what she said that was so funny, but after a few seconds she starts giggling along with you, high-pitched, girlish squeals of delight.

"C'mon, baby, let's go get you changed," you say, and scoop her up.

 

A week later, you get called in to the lab after hours to fix an emergency calibration error in one of SkaiaNet's satellites, and at such short notice, there's no time to arrange for a babysitter. You bribe Frank the guard with a plate of homemade sugar cookies, and he lets you bring Rose with you into the high-security lab in the back. Good man. You hold Rose securely on your lap while you code one-handed, keeping her occupied by running the fish tank screensaver on your second monitor. When your coding is finished, you heft Rose back onto your hip and walk past the guard station, where Frank is still munching on the cookies.

"Say bye-bye to Frank!" you direct your daughter. Normally she's quite happy to greet and wave at people, but tonight she just stares blankly, too tired or too shy to oblige you. You give Frank your apologies, and pack Rose into her car seat to go home.

Halfway there, Rose idly lifts up a hand, opening and closing her fingers, and says "bye-bye" to absolutely no one. Well, better late than never.

 

Sometimes she's just so precocious and adorable that you want to hug her to you and never let her go.

One day, she puts on a pair of your heels and a sheet over her head like a veil, poses in front of the mirror and announces, "Look, it's Rose! How cute!" You can't help but agree.

After watching _The Wizard of Oz_ for the first time, she turns around and asks, "Mama good witch or bad witch?" and you snort laughing.

Once, when a blind date goes badly and you come home scared, humiliated, and upset, she crawls into your lap, pats your tousled hair and says, "Shh, Mama, don't cry." Of course, that only makes you cry harder.

\--

It's a cool, blustery September morning when you get the call from your mother. "It's your dad," she sniffs, and before she says anything else, you know what's happened. Your father has been struggling with early-onset Alzheimer's for years. The past few months have been a morbid, torturous waiting game—waiting for him to die. Now that the moment has finally come, it's almost a relief.

Rose is far too young to understand the concept behind a funeral. She squirms in your arms all through the wake, and the moment the funeral procession makes it to the graveyard, she wants to run around the headstones. She cries, but it's out of frustration, not grief.

When the funeral is over, you hold her hand and let her lead you through the neat rows. She picks a wild dandelion from beside one of the graves, and lets it fall atop the flat marble marker of some unknown stranger.

"Sweet girl," you say, and kiss her on the forehead.

Two days later, you drive with Rose to your parents' house to help go through your dad's things. Your mother doesn't answer the door when you knock. You let yourself in with your key, with Rose on your hip and your heart fluttering in your throat.

When you find your mother's body, your first, absurd thought is, ' _oh no, not another funeral_.' She looks peaceful, lying in bed with her arms at her sides, fully dressed, like she was prepared to be found. Waiting for you. There's an overturned wine bottle and two empty bottles of diazepam on the night stand. With her liver, it wouldn't have taken long at all. A clean, merciful death.

You glance around, but you find no note. Either she was too miserable to go on, or she was afraid of lingering the way your dad did. You're surprised—you'd had no idea she was planning this—but you don't begrudge her, whatever the case.

Per her wishes, your mother's body is cremated, and in the end, there's no funeral at all. You scatter her ashes over your father's fresh grave, and have her name added to the headstone.

Twenty-six and parentless. All things considered, your folks could have picked a worse time to kick it. You're fairly well established in adulthood, with your own place and a steady job, and you haven't truly _needed_ them for a long time. But you still miss them. You miss the way your dad would toss you up into the air and catch you when you were little, and the way your mother was always laughing. Aside from an aunt you haven't spoken to in years, Rose is now the only family you have left.

Rose, and Dave.

Twice since you've moved back to New York, you've hired private investigators to check in on Dirk and Dave and report their findings to you. Both times the reports were the same: Dirk's struggling a bit, but surviving, and he's passed every CPS inspection to which he's been subject. Dave, now almost two, is growing up healthy and happy. The second PI even managed to snap a couple photos, which you keep tucked away into one of your dresser drawers. They're from a long distance, and slightly grainy, but you can still make out Dave's face where Dirk has him over his shoulder. He's smiling, reaching up to catch a falling leaf, and he's _so beautiful_.

Sometimes you wonder whether you ought to send them some cash. You've barely got enough to make ends meet yourself, but you know you have more than they do. You'd have to be careful, though; let any identifying information slip, and you could be looking at a court summons you definitely can't afford.

And then, sometimes you wonder whether you should give up altogether. Stop hiring PIs and just let them go. The longer you spend here in New York, the more real the possibility grows that you will never see Dirk or your son again. What good does it do to hold onto hope, to kill yourself drinking so you won't have to lie awake in bed every night with regrets and what-ifs?

Indecision is a safety blanket. If you put it off just one more day, one more week, one more month, then all possibilities remain open. Somewhere along the waveform, there's a universe in which you reconnect with your son someday, and your family is complete.

You can't let that dream die, and so you simply keep on living. Day after week after month, just you and Rose. It isn't easy, no, but sometimes it's fun. And it's always, always worth it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Almost every single thing Rose does in this chapter is something I did as a baby. (I blamed Buddy Roemer for my dirty diaper, rather than Bob Saget.)


	6. Admissions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cameo in this chapter, for sharp-eyed readers!
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.

\-- December, 1997 --

Your name is Dirk Strider, and sometimes life sucks.

It's been a heinously busy Friday night at the pizzeria where you work part-time, so when the clock hits nine and your shift ends, you're way past ready to go home and go to sleep. You nod to Victor, your boss, and finish doling out plates to your table before punching out, dreaming all the while about the awesome power nap you're going to take. Tomorrow's shift starts in less than twelve hours.

It's bitingly cold outside, about ten degrees cooler than when you'd gone in to work, so you turn up the collar of your jacket and shiver. The windshield of your truck is frosted over. You scrape most of it off with the hard edge of your driver's license and climb in the cab, eager to get the heater going.

At least it works—the heat in your apartment building has been out for three days now. You spare a second of worry for Dave and the babysitter, who've got nothing but blankets and your shitty little space heater. Hopefully it's enough to keep them warm. You have half a mind to go down to the building's basement and fuck with the boiler yourself, but the last time you'd tried something like that, the maintenance guy thought you were stealing his job and threatened to get you evicted. Figures.

As you'd predicted, the stairwell is freezing cold, but when you open the door to your apartment, you're hit with a comforting wall of warmth.

"Dang, it's toasty in here."

"Deeeee!" your son shrieks upon seeing you. It's what he calls you most of the time lately. You've yet to get more than ten or twelve instances of 'daddy' out of him, but that's fine by you. At only nineteen, you still feel a little young for it.

"Welcome back," says Carmen, the babysitter, a high school senior from down the block. (Mrs. Yurieva still watches Dave during the day, but when you got your second job, you needed extra coverage.) Carmen sets him on the ground and he comes barreling toward you to latch onto your shins. "He's been asking when you were getting home for the last hour."

"Aww." You reach down to pry him off your legs and swing him up onto your hip. "Didja miss me?"

"No! Pizza!" he shouts, right in your face.

"Damn, I should've known. So what am I, then, chopped liver?"

Dave deliberates for a moment, then decides, "Yes."

Carmen hoots with laughter, and you shoot her a half-hearted glare, which is subverted by the grin you can't seem to stifle. "I see how it is," you say, and set Dave back down on the ground. "You assholes are lucky I brought you anything at all." You dig in your messenger bag and pull out the cardboard box of leftovers you'd ganked from the kitchen at work. In it are five slices of pizza: two for you, two for Carmen, and one for Dave.

Dave, who is well accustomed to leftover pizza dinners, happily absconds to the kitchenette and attempts to climb into his high chair. "Hold up, hold up!" you call after him, setting down the pizza and snatching him up before he can fall off and hurt himself. Kid must be hungry. Maybe you can find a little wiggle room in next week's budget for extra snack food. Dave cooperates by worming his legs through the holes of his high chair when you set him in it. You retrieve the pizza box, and once you've cut up Dave's slice for him, you sink down next to Carmen on the futon to share the rest of it.

"Long night?" she asks between bites.

"When is it not," you sigh. "Did the brat let you get your homework done?"

"Sort of," Carmen frowns. "He's been a little cranky. I felt his forehead, and it seemed like he might be running a fever or something."

You wave a hand dismissively. "Eh, nothing to worry about. Kids his age get low-grade fevers all the time; it's normal."

"Phew, well that's good to know," Carmen says and relaxes back into the cushions. "Anyway, I distracted him with Sesame Street long enough to finish the first draft of my essay. Still gotta finish math, but I'll take care of it at some point this weekend."

"Hm. If you leave the essay here, I'll look it over for you and give it back to you before Monday."

She raises a pierced eyebrow at you and asks through a mouthful of pizza, "You sure you're gonna have time to do that?"

Between two jobs and a toddler, you honestly don't know whether you will or not, but you feel like you owe Carmen more than the pittance you're paying her to watch Dave every evening. "I'll squeeze it in," you promise her. "This is college admissions. It's important."

"Thank you _so_ much," Carmen says, and leans over animal cracker crumbs and remote controls to give you a hug. "You know," she says when you part, her hands lingering on your shoulders, "this should be you. Writing the essay. You'd blow them all away, Dirk."

Not this again. Every time somebody takes five minutes to look past your juvie record and the whole teen dad thing to discover—gasp!—you're actually a pretty intelligent guy, it's all, " _Well, why didn't you go to college?_ "

You remove her hands from your shoulders. "I appreciate your confidence in my abilities," you tell her as diplomatically as possible, "but that's just not the way things turned out for me. If I keep thinking about what could have been... That way madness lies."

"I guess," she says, glancing in the direction of the kitchenette, where Dave is still sitting in his high chair. You know what she's thinking, because you've heard it from people before. _What a shame_. Well, fuck that. Dave's not some roadblock that's holding you back and preventing you from completing your education; he's your child.

"You can stop mourning my 'lost potential' anytime now, Car," you say flatly.

"I-I wasn't–" she stammers guiltily, and then her shoulders slump. "I mean... Sorry."

"It's chill." You've had a lot of time to come to terms with the path your life has taken, and you're okay with it. Really. "Now hand over the essay and get outta here, girl. It's the weekend. Go do teenager shit."

"Mhmm, you know it," says Carmen impishly, back to smiling. "So many parties, so little time."

Though you're only two years older than she is, you may as well inhabit separate worlds, for all you have in common with the high school girl. The Dirk who went out partying all night was a different person from the Dirk who can change a diaper with his eyes closed. Sometimes you miss being him.

Carmen digs around in her backpack, while you scrub the pizza smears off Dave's face. When he's all clean, you lift him out his high chair and set him on the floor. He makes a beeline for the futon and burrows himself in your flannel blanket. That's odd; you're a little warm with the space heater going, even jacketless.

"Here," Carmen says, and hands you a spiral-bound notebook labeled 'Admissions'. "Thanks again, Dirk, this means a lot to me."

"No problem." You muss her hair, and she grins, hip-checking you on her way out the door.

You like Carmen a lot. She's a natural with Dave, and he loves her, and she deserves to pass college admissions (more than you ever did, growing up as a privileged little shitbag). Maybe you can squeeze her essay into your lunch break tomorrow. You stow the notebook in your messenger bag, just in case.

Normally you shower before bed, but tonight you're so wiped you're afraid you'd fall asleep standing up. You'll do it in the morning, then. You trudge over to the futon to get Dave ready for bed. There isn't much to do; Carmen had already put him in pajamas, bless her.

"Bedtime, Dave," you grunt.

"No!" he says, though he's rubbing his eyes and tugging at his ear, clearly on the verge of sleep. Typical.

"Come on, little dude."

"Nooo!" he whines louder, and he retreats further into your blanket, like he can hide from you.

It's way too late and you're far too tired to argue with a stubborn, cranky toddler, so you just scoop him up, blanket and all. He communicates his displeasure by screaming and flailing the whole way to the bedroom, kicking you in the ribs a couple times. You grit your teeth, and when you get to the crib, you deposit him into it most unceremoniously.

"G'night, Dave. Try and go to sleep."

"Noooooo!" he shrieks, red-faced, in the throes of a full blown tantrum. He has a blanket of his own, but just to be contrary, he latches onto yours when you try to take it back from him. Whatever, he can have it for now. You just want to sleep.

You glance at your bed beside his crib, considering crawling into it, but... Fuck it. The living room is quieter. You move the space heater into the hall, leave his door open a crack and go flop onto the futon, blanketless, pulling your pillow over your head to drown out the crying. He'll settle down eventually. You're so exhausted that, despite Dave's screaming, you crash straight into a deep and heavy sleep.

 

You have strange and unsettling dreams. Shadowy impressions of wings, the gleam of steel, foam-flecked fangs, and green fire. You feel the ghosts of emotions, pride and fear and protectiveness, though you don't know why. If you could just pull away the haze, focus the image, then maybe...

_pain pain pain painpainpainpain_

 

You lurch awake, shaking and sweating, your hand coming up instinctively to the center of your chest. It was a dream, you _know_ it was, but it felt so _real_. A blade, slicing through skin and greasy viscera, cleaving your spine in two to pin you to the ground. Blood, so much blood. And someone there watching you die, choking on guttural sobs and squeezing your hand, just out of your line of sight.

That part, at least, is more than just a dream—someone _is_ crying. Dave. You snap instantly into dad mode, a reflex left over from when he was an infant, and listen. It's different this time. Instead of the loud, showy screams of a toddler tantrum, these are quiet, reedy moans of genuine misery. Your so-called stoic heart seizes. Your little boy's hurting, and he needs you.

Dream forgotten, you roll off the futon and onto your feet in one motion, flashstepping the distance to the bedroom and flicking on the lamp. Dave is lying curled in on himself at one end of the crib. He doesn't acknowledge that you've entered the room, just continues to make those heartbreaking little cries of pain. He shies away a bit when you put a hand on his forehead, hypersensitive to your touch, but the half second of contact you get is all you need. He's sticky with sweat and burning up.

"Oh no, Dave, c'mere," you say soothingly and hoist him up into your arms. His cries increase in volume, and he tries to bury his face into your armpit to hide. Even the dim light of the lamp is too much for his eyes right now. You walk over to stand in the corner, where it's a little darker.

"Tell me what's wrong, buddy." He whines something in reply, but it's muffled by your shirt. You pull him away just enough that you can hear him better. "Can you say that again?" you prod him gently.

He reaches up and tugs at his ear, like he did earlier. "Hurts," he says. You're confused for a moment, until you see that when his hand comes away, it's wet with clear, reddish fluid.

"Oh, _shit_." You may have failed biology in high school, but that doesn't mean you weren't paying attention. This is bad. You should have taken Carmen more seriously when she was telling you about his fever earlier. If something happens to him, it'll be your fault.

 _Don't panic, don't panic_. "C'mon, let's go take your temperature, okay?"

"No," Dave protests weakly, but he allows you to carry him to the bathroom and set him on the lid of the toilet. You flick on the tiny light over the shower instead of the one over the vanity, casting the room in a gentle, diffuse glow. The ear thermometer is out of the question, so you root around in the medicine cabinet until you unearth an old glass mercury thermometer. It's been years since you used one of these, but your brain goes on autopilot, running the end under the cold tap and shaking it till the mercury's at below 95 degrees. Dave doesn't want to put the thermometer under his tongue, but you bribe and cajole him into it with the promise of ice cream later. How _much_ later remains to be seen.

After two and a half minutes, he spits it out and you call it good. You hold the thin glass tube up to the light to read it. It's dim, and you have to peer closely at it to see the tiny numbers. A hundred and three. _Fuck_. For you, that temperature wouldn't be so big a deal. Load up on Tylenol, cool shower if necessary, and keep an eye on it. For Dave, barely two years old, it has the potential to be deadly.

You duck out the bathroom and glance at the clock. It's five in the morning, far too early for the doctor's office, and though there's a 24-hour clinic not too far away, you're afraid that whatever's wrong with Dave is too serious for simple first-aid care. You have to take him to the emergency room.

There's just one problem, and it's called Shitty Health Insurance.

You're honestly lucky to have insurance at all. If you weren't busting your ass working 60 hours a week, you wouldn't be able to afford it. (Make any less money and you'd be eligible for Medicaid, but then there goes your rent budget.) The private health insurance had seemed worth it in the past, when it was just vaccinations and check ups. But the thousand dollar ER coverage it provides may not be enough, if Dave's in real trouble. There's just under 400 bucks left in the small fund Dave's mother left with him. That _might_ cover the difference, if you're lucky.

If you're not, you'll work more hours at the pizzeria, cut down on your spending, and absorb the cost. Who needs more than one good meal a day, anyway?

"We're gonna go on a little adventure, okay, buddy?" you tell Dave, and set him on the futon with your flannel blanket. "I just need to grab a few more things." Extra clothes and socks and shoes for Dave, his favorite picture book, pull-ups, a few packs of fruit snacks, and a distressingly small wad of cash. (You should have saved more, should have sucked it up and done without some of those frivolous expenditures. Your ratty old Converse could have lasted another month, if you'd duct taped them again. Too late now.)

"Where we going?" Dave asks plaintively as you put on his socks and shoes, followed by his coat and hat. You leave him in his PJ's; they're softer and warmer than his regular clothes anyway.

"We're going to the doctor," you tell him, hefting him up onto your hip, along with the blanket. He's still burning hot to the touch, shivering and crying slow, silent tears. "They're gonna fix you, okay? Make you all better."

"I get shots?" he says with alarm.

You can't lie to him. "Probably so." He whines a little, but you don’t blame him for being upset. You never liked getting shots either. "But hey, I'm gonna hold you the whole time, alright? It won't be so bad. And remember, you get ice cream when this is all over."

The promise does little to console him.

Anxiety has your jaw clenching on the drive to the nearest hospital, so bad that when you bundle Dave into the emergency room, you have to spend a few seconds wrenching it open just to talk to the woman behind the counter.

"Well, it ain't immediately life-threatening," she says after she takes a quick look at him, "so you can fill this out until they're ready to take him back to check him out. It's a busy night, so it might be a little while. I'll call ya when it's time."

You'd grit your teeth again if you weren't afraid you'd crack your molars, but there's nothing you can do. You take the clipboard with a sigh, and find two empty seats for you and Dave to sit in. To your left, a homeless guy is muttering about liver failure, and to your right, a mother is consoling her school-aged daughter about what looks to be a broken arm. You wonder how long they've been here. A while, judging by the level of bruising around the girl's arm, and the rings of exhaustion under her mother's eyes. This could be a long wait indeed.

You arrange Dave in his hard plastic seat with his blanket and some fruit snacks, and attempt to get comfortable in your own, bracing the clipboard of forms against your lap. You're no stranger to emergency rooms, nor to their lengthy waiting times. You've come with your folks on a number of occasions: the time you fell out a tree and got concussed so badly you forgot your name, the time you had an allergic reaction to a hornet sting, and the time Brandon broke your nose, among others. This is the first time, however, that you've been on this side of the equation. Now it's you playing the part of the worried parent, filling in a form that reduces your son to a series of impersonal questions. _Date of birth? Sex? Social Security Number?_ You wish you knew anything at all to put in the spaces asking about his mother and her medical history. You leave them blank and move on, row after column after signature. Dave shivers beside you, and falls into a restless sleep as the minutes tick by.

And tick by.

And tick by.

"Wanna go home," Dave whines, about two hours in. In that time, fourteen new people have come to the ER, and only nine have moved on to triage or to a room. The little girl with the broken arm got called back maybe five minutes ago. The homeless man is still there, muttering.

"I know you wanna go, buddy," you sigh, rubbing comforting circles into his back. "Not too much longer." You hope not, anyway. The sky outside the plate glass windows is a sickly predawn gray, the sunrise less than an hour off. Yeah... there's no way you're making it to work today. You should probably call Victor from the pizzeria and let him know.

"Hey, stay right here for a minute, okay?" you say, and pull Dave's blanket tighter around him. "I gotta make a phone call. I'll be right back, so don't move. Alright?"

He doesn't so much as budge when you get up and cross the room to the pay phone. If you didn't already know he was sick, that would've confirmed it. Kid's a tripping hazard at home.

You dig a quarter out of your pocket and drop it in the payphone slot, and after dialing, wait through five rings before Victor picks up.

"Y'ello."

"Hey, Victor."

"Strider, is that you?" he grumbles. Shit, he was asleep.

"Yeah, it's me. Sorry to have to call you so early, I just... I'm not going to be able to make it to my shift today, and I wanted to let you know."

"What? Why?" he demands. "What's going on?" It's hard to tell by his tone of voice whether he's angry, concerned, or both.

"I'm at the ER," you explain. "My son's got some kind of ear infection or something. He woke up bleeding and running a hundred and three fever."

Victor lets out a long sigh directly into the receiver. "I'm sorry to hear that, and I sure hope he gets better, but I ain't gonna just let you off the hook this time."

"Off the hook?" you repeat, hoping you'd misunderstood him. "What do you mean?"

"You already missed two shifts this month, with nobody to cover for you," he says.

"Victor, I told you I needed last Friday off two weeks in advance."

"I never approved your request. Now, I feel for you, I really do, but if you can't work the hours you sign up for, then I can't justify keepin' you on the schedule."

No. Nononono. "What are you saying?"

"There's nobody who can cover your shift. Either you work the hours you agreed to work, or I'm sorry, but I've got to let you go."

"Come on, man, please," you beg. You cannot afford to lose this job. "I'll make up the time; you know I'm good for it. Just this once."

"No can do," Victor says. "I need an employee who's there when he says he's gonna be."

This can't be happening. Not now, not when there's so much on the line. "Please, there's nobody else who can– You can't ask me to– He's my _little boy_ , Vic, this isn't _fair_."

"I know it ain't, but those're my terms. This is the way it's gotta be."

You glance over at Dave, huddled and miserable in his plastic chair, his forehead slick with sweat. Dave sees you looking and perks up a bit, murmuring a hopeful "Daddy?" and you swallow hard. It's a foregone conclusion. You would give your life for him without a second thought—your job doesn't even come _close_.

"I can't," you say hoarsely. "I'm sorry, but my son comes first. Always."

Victor lets out a grunt. "Alright, then. Don't worry about comin' in to pick up your last paycheck; I'll mail it to you."

You let out an angry snarl and slam down the handset without reply.

And that's it. You're _fucked_.

"Goddammit!" you curse, and kick the payphone stand, hissing when you jam your toe. The people nearest you flinch in surprise, and the woman behind the desk gives you a dirty look. Dave, unfazed, just sniffs sleepily when you sit back down beside him. You put a hand to his forehead, and check under the gauze they'd given you for his ear. Still hot, still clammy, and still bleeding, if only sluggishly. This morning couldn't get any goddamn worse. You brace your elbows on your knees and hang your head. There’s nothing you can do but continue to wait. You blink wearily, and the world goes blurry and dim.

What happens now? It could take every last penny you have just to pay for this, and you're going to be short quite a few of them now that you're down to one job. Madge at the auto shop has been good to you (hell, she even sent Dave a birthday card last week), but she can't afford to pay you overtime for extra hours. God, and your fucking social worker has been nagging you about setting a check up appointment, and if she finds out you lost a job... _Fuck_.

A flash of blue catches your attention, and your eyes refocus.

It takes you a moment to realize what it is—the corner of Carmen's notebook, sticking up out of your messenger bag. Huh. Well, you have nothing better to do. You dig it out along with a pen, sit back, and start reading.

> _I don't mean to sound like a million other people, but I do mean it when I say that I'm driven like no other. As the very first person in my family to even consider going to college, I carry the hopes and expectations of my parents, my grandparents, and my younger siblings. The chance to rise above where I am from and the legacy of my family is a motivation so strong that I know beyond a doubt I can accomplish great things._
> 
> _I understand full well the opportunity that going to college would give me, and I know that I am capable of using that opportunity to its fullest extent. I will distinguish myself from my peers because my stakes are higher than theirs, my will is stronger, and my effort is backed by previous hard work. I believe to my very core that I can and will succeed, and I hope to prove it to you with this opportunity in the months and years to come._

You bite your lip, then flip the page over to the blank back side. Carmen's intelligent and a talented writer, but the essay's not college admissions material. It's an impersonal Hallmark card. An admissions essay is supposed to be about what makes you tick, what makes you _you_. It's got to be more personal, more meaningful than that.

(You'd know. You'd sent in several essays before finally giving up on the idea of going to college altogether. The consensus you received from the admissions officers was that you would never in a million years get in, based on your grades and your juvie record, but your essay wasn't bad.)

Carmen, though. She's got a chance. Her grades are good, and she works hard, and though she likes to party on the weekends and sports more tats and piercings than even you do, she knows when to buckle down and take things seriously. You wouldn’t trust her with Dave if you didn’t believe that one hundred percent.

If she needs someone to show her how to cut her heart open, to show the color of her blood, you will be her example.

You click your pen, flip to a fresh page, and start writing.

> _An incorrigible cynic once said, "Success is fleeting, but mistakes are forever." If it's true that every person has a slate on which his or her mistakes are indelibly recorded, mine must be nearly full._
> 
> _I am a man (and barely that) who has made his share of missteps, and suffered the consequences of his failures. I know what it's like to disappoint people. I wasted my entire high school career rebelling against my father, too caught up in my own ego to realize I had an opportunity that many did not, and that the best way to get revenge would be to succeed despite him. Instead, I fell into a destructive pattern of petty crime and substance abuse, fueled by the people with whom I chose to surround myself. My father disowned me when I was seventeen, and emancipation followed shortly thereafter._
> 
> _I had just turned eighteen when I found out I was a father. The idea is nearly as shocking to me now, going on two years later, as it was to me then. How could someone my age and with my history be expected to raise and care for a baby? Everyone says that having children is life-changing, but I didn't realize how true that is until it happened to me. Suddenly being responsible for another human life, where before I was irresponsible even with my own, forced me to examine my actions and the direction in which I was headed. In order to establish custody for my son, I had to prove I had changed. That meant cleaning up, and leaving people who were bad influences behind. I stopped smoking and drinking. I began taking better care of myself, emotionally and physically. However, the bridges I once burned with my bad behavior have remained burned, and the memory of all my past mistakes lingers on._
> 
> _And yet, hope survives. I have made a lot of mistakes in my life, but my son is not a mistake. My failures far outweigh my successes; however, my worth is predicated not on my failures, but on my potential. And, if ever there was a vessel of raw potential, it is the limitless blank canvas of a child's future. No matter what I personally achieve, I know my most important legacy will be my son. But for him to succeed, he must have a strong foundation—one that I alone can build for him._
> 
> _Both his and my futures hinge upon your decision. While I cannot provide any evidence as to my worthiness, aside from my credentials as a parent, I offer this challenge: I'm worth it, and I can prove it. I will prove it, if you let me._
> 
> _Just give me a chance. Please. Anybody._ Please _._

You don't realize you're crying until the first teardrop splashes onto the page and blurs the fresh ink.

"Fuck," you choke, your eyes burning. You drop the pen and notebook, doubling over and burying your face in your hands. "God _dammit_."

You're tired and you're afraid, and you're tired of _being_ afraid, of being lonely and sad and impotent to fix any of it. You don't know what to _do_ anymore. All you want is for Dave to grow up right, but you're scared to death that you're simply not capable of giving him everything he needs.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, though you know he's asleep. "I'm so sorry you're stuck with me." He deserves so much better than someone broken inside like you. For the millionth time, you wonder if you were selfish in keeping him. Maybe he'd have been better off if you'd put him up for adoption. He could've had two parents, who were older, more prepared, and looking forward to raising a child. He could've had stability.

It's like you told Carmen: there are no ifs; there's simply what _is_ , and you've always owned up to the consequences of your actions. You helped conceive him, and so Dave is your responsibility. There's no room in your schedule for a fucking pity party.

You wipe the remaining moisture from your eyes, steel yourself back into the rigid mask of untouchable calm that got you through your adolescence, and straighten up in your chair. You'll get a new job, or take out a loan, or grovel at your dad's fucking feet, if that's what it takes to keep you afloat. You won't let this defeat you.

You have no other choice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless Dirk's pretentious lil' heart.
> 
> P.S. Porrima, a.k.a. Antevorta, was one of a pair of goddesses known as the Carmentae.


	7. Colonel Sanders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First kid-POV chapter!
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: child abuse, emetophobia, violence, boys being crass.

\-- March, 1999 --

Your name is Dave Strider; D-A-V-E. Sometimes people try to call you David or Davy, but you always correct them. Dirk calls you Dave, and so that is who you are.

Sometimes you get confused about who Dirk is, though. Well, sort of. You're three years old, not a dumb baby—you live alone with him, and he takes care of you, and when people ask him if you're his son, he always says yes. He's your daddy. But when you watch your favorite cartoons, curled up in his lap and munching on animal crackers, you can't help but notice that he's different from all the daddies on TV. He doesn't wear suits or ties, or bring a briefcase to work, and he doesn't drink beer or think much of playing sports. Instead, he runs on soda and microwave burritos, wears t-shirts, and plays video games. He's more like a really big, really tall kid. That's okay; you like him just fine anyway. But it feels strange to you to call him 'Daddy', and even stranger to call him Dirk, and so you go looking for a new name for him. You search and search, and then one day you find one in the unlikeliest of places.

You're elbow-deep in a pile of magazines, flipping through them to look at the pictures, when you come across a photo of a man in sunglasses and a hat. You glance up at Dirk, who's lounging back on the futon, shades planted firmly on the bridge of his nose and his cap pulled down to cover his face. You prod him on the shoulder and he snorts himself awake.

"What's up, squirt?" he asks through a jaw-cracking yawn. He tilts his hat back to look at you as you clamber atop him, magazine in hand.

"Who's this?" you say, pointing at the picture of the man who looks just like your daddy. "Is this you?"

He laughs in response, a low rumble that reverberates through his chest. "Nah, that's not me. That's GameBro."

"GameBwo?" you repeat.

"Close enough." Dirk flips to the front cover of the magazine and traces the letters one by one with his fingers. "What letters are these?"

You know a challenge when you hear one. You squint at the big orange shapes, trying to make sense of them. "G, A, M," you say cautiously, and then you glance over to Dirk for approval.

"Good. Keep going."

"E, B."

"Mhmm."

"R, O."

Dirk smiles really big at you, like he only ever does when no one else is around. It makes you feel smart and happy. "Good job, lil' man." He ruffles a hand through your hair, his way of telling you he's proud of you. "Now, can you tell me what it says?"

You turn back to the page and frown at it doubtfully. It's one thing to identify letters, but reading whole words is just asking too much. You shake your head, disappointed in yourself.

"S'okay. It says, 'GameBro'."

Oh, well, duh. You point at Dirk. "GameBwo!"

Dirk raises an eyebrow. "I told you, squirt, that ain't me. That's just some douchebag in a magazine."

"Then... just Bro?" you try, still pointing.

He snorts. "That ain't how we're related, and you know it. Do I have to break out the birds and the bees talk a few years early? Draw you a family tree?"

You don't have the faintest idea what he's talking about. "What's a family tree?" you ask, picturing a giant tree from which you can pluck family members like apples.

"I—you know, nevermind, it's too complicated. I'll explain in a couple of years. Promise."

"Kay. ...Bro."

Dirk sighs and plants his palm over his eyes, then realizes he's still wearing his shades and looses a theatrical groan. You burst out into giggles. Getting a rise out of him is your very favorite game. "Bro! Bro! Bro!"

"Whatever," he says, pulling his shades off to scrub them with the hem of his shirt. "Lord knows it won't stick. Next week you'll be calling me Colonel Sanders."

(It sticks, but not for lack of protest. The day he finally answers to it is when you know you've got him beat. Sucker.)

\--

One evening, the apartment doorbell rings. It startles you out of your coloring, and you accidentally snap your very best red crayon. You're too confused to be upset. Who could it possibly be? Mrs. Yurieva always knocks, and while pizza delivery people sometimes ring the doorbell, you already finished your dinner ten minutes ago.

Bro is just as surprised as you are. "Stay right there," he directs you, low and wary, and gets up to answer the door. He pulls it open just a crack at first. But when he sees the person on the other side, his whole face lights up, and he throws the door open. "Brandon? Holy shit, get the fuck in here."

A man about Bro's age with spiked hair and a baggy gray hoodie surges through and bumps chests with him before grabbing him up into a hug. "Diiiiirk, brother. Long time no see."

"Seriously, dude, I can't believe you're here," Bro grins, and holds him away at arms' length to inspect him. Bro must really like this man, because you don't think you've ever seen him this happy before. "What's the occasion?"

"Uh, your fuckin' birthday?"

"Oh shit, it is my birthday, isn't it?" Bro blinks. "I'd totally forgotten."

"How the hell do you forget your own birthday?"

You agree; that sounds awful. Who's gonna make him a cake?

Bro seems to remember you're there, turning to you and smiling faintly. "I… have more important things going on."

"More important than your twenty-first birthday?" the other man scoffs. "Bullshit."

"Hey, Dave? C'mere, buddy." You obey, but you're nervous, so you hold onto the leg of Bro's jeans and hide yourself halfway behind him. "This is my friend, Brandon. Can you say hi to Mr. Brandon?"

You peer up, up, up at the man and say, "H'lo."

"So this is the little squirt," Brandon says, crouching down so he's closer to eye level with you. You shrink back just a bit. "He's still got those weird-ass eyes."

"Yo, I resemble that remark," Bro mutters sourly.

Weird eyes? "Huh?" You scrub at your ear, to ensure you heard him right. "What weird eyes?"

"Hey, he really talks!" says Brandon.

"'Course he talks; he's three."

"Hm, I guess. Last time I saw you, kid, you were an iiiitty bitty baby."

"Oh," you mumble uncertainly. You don't remember that.

Brandon abruptly straightens up again, done with talking to you for the time being. "Good to see this place hasn't changed, at least," he says as he steps into the main area, looking around the place appraisingly and leaving you and Bro in the doorway. "Still a fuckin' shithole. I'm surprised you haven't killed the kid yet."

"Killed him? Jesus, Bran, I'm not that incompetent."

"Yeah, but come on. I mean, _you_ , a good dad?"

Behind Brandon's back, you see Bro wince. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Crazy, right?"

You're not sure what Brandon means—you think Bro is a great dad. Even though he made you start going to daycare, he always picks you up on time, and you always have food to eat, and he even lets you be Donkey Kong when you play Donkey Kong Country together. As if in defiance, Bro scoops you up and plants a kiss on your head.

"Hey, little buddy," he says, "go color some more while Mr. Brandon and I talk. Okay?"

"'Kay," you agree. As soon as Bro sets you down, you make a beeline back to your coloring book and pick up your crayons, but you aren't paying much attention to what you're doing. You're more interested in hearing what Bro and this Brandon person have to say.

Bro snags a couple cans of orange soda from the fridge, and he and Brandon flop down onto the futon, kicking their legs up on the coffee table.

"I can't believe you still drink this shit," Brandon says, before taking a long pull. "It's like drinking liquid juggalo."

"Psh, don't pretend you never had a juggalo phase," Bro jabs back at him. "Remember that time you got face paint all over Stacy Beck when you ate her out, and she had to sit through class with her thighs stuck together?"

"Nope, never happened."

"There's pictures of her chair afterward; I've seen 'em. Like a beautiful, fucked up Rorschach butterfly."

"Whatever, at least I was getting some."

"And I wasn't? Irrefutable proof right over there, dude."

You have no idea what on earth they're talking about, and something tells you you don't _want_ to know. But whatever it is, Bro is happy. He's smiling, the same smile you usually only see when it's just you and him. You and Bro have sat through enough 'ironic' princess movies that you know 'love' when you see it. All he's missing are the little birdies and the fairy godmother. Does he hope that Brandon will carry him off into the sunset? A spike of jealousy and panic surges in your belly. Bro is _your_ Bro, not Brandon's. You don't have a mommy. If he took Bro away, you'd have no one. Besides, you don't think Brandon looks much like a prince.

"So what's the plan, birthday boy?" Brandon asks after a long pull off his soda. "What're we gonna do to celebrate?"

"I don't know, I hadn't thought about it."

"We could always go to Escapades," says Brandon with an eyebrow waggle.

Bro considers this idea, but he doesn't seem too enthused. "What am I gonna do with my kid, though? It's too short notice to find a babysitter, dude."

Kid? Hey, that's you. You stop coloring to listen a little closer.

"You could just bring 'im with us."

"What? No, are you insane? You can't bring a three-year-old to a titty bar."

Titty? Is that anything like a kitty? You like petting kitties. You drop your crayon and call, "Bro! Brooooo!" until he glances over at you.

"Yeah?"

"I wan' go to a kitty bar."

Bro coughs on his soda. "Hah. Sorry, squirt, maybe next time."

You huff and go back to coloring your picture of Big Bird. You didn't want to go to a dumb kitty bar anyway.

"We gotta do something," Brandon insists. "It doesn't have to be Escapades, but there has to be alcohol involved. Getting shitfaced on your twenty-first is a milestone of adulthood. You can't just not do it."

" _Milestone of adulthood?_ " Bro scoffs. "Dude, the only milestone I haven't already hit is getting married. I don't see the point in making a big deal out of the fact that I can now legally do something I've done a hundred times before. You've been drunk with me enough times to know that shit's lost all novelty."

"To you, maybe, but some of us ain't got nothin' better to do. Let's just _go_. I'll only have a couple beers, so I can drive, and they'll let you bring the kid in Keggers if you just give him apple juices or some shit."

Bro grimaces. "Brandon, look. I can't risk it. I had to jump through a lot of fuckin' hoops to get custody of Dave, with my juvie record. I barely convinced them I was responsible enough as it is. If I get in trouble, they'll… They'll take 'im away."

You freeze altogether. Take you away from Bro? But they couldn't do that! He wouldn't let them. Would he?

Brandon lets his head fall back, slumping lower on the futon, and releases a long, impatient sigh. "Alright, fine, fuckin' chill. We'll just party here."

"Sorry. I don't mean to be a killjoy."

"Hey, I get it," he says wryly. "If you wanted CPS off your back, you had to quit hangin' out with asshole losers like me and getting wasted all the time." Bro opens his mouth, maybe to argue, but Brandon cuts him off. "Just lemme borrow your phone; I need to make some calls."

 

Less than an hour later, the apartment is bustling with activity. You've counted one, two, three, four, five, ten, fifteen people who you've never seen before, and they're all standing around, drinking out of red plastic cups and talking amongst each other. You feel out of place in your own home around all these loud, laughing adults, so you hide in the corner where you won't get underfoot. You sit and play quietly with your blocks, and if people talk to you, you answer in yeses and nos if at all. You wish they'd all just go away.

Bro looks happy, though—or at least more relaxed and at ease in a crowd than you've ever seen him. Normally when you're out in public, he keeps to himself. Now he's laughing along with everyone else, his posture relaxed, a cup in his hand. You're almost jealous.

Brandon holds up his cup to Bro's, and they clack the rims together. "Happy birthday, dude."

"L'chaim."

The door opens again and several more people come through, acknowledged with a round of "Heeeey!" from several of the gathered crowd.

"Bran, baby," a lady with vivid red hair says, and comes up to kiss Brandon long and deeply.  Bro, who'd been watching, looks away. "We invited a couple of guys from high school. Hope that's okay."

That's when things start to go wrong. More and more people arrive, filling up the kitchenette, the living room, and the bedroom. You take your coloring book and crawl under the kitchen table with it to avoid being trampled. It's too noisy, too crowded; you can feel your skin itching, almost like a mosquito bite. You want them all to go away.

You almost lose sight of Bro in all the hubbub, but you catch glimpses of him here and there from your low-angle vantage point. He looks like he's having less and less fun as time goes on: "Eric, buddy. It's not that I ain't happy to see you, but aren't you only twenty? I can't have you drinking in here, or if they bust us I'm in deep shit." And, "What the fuck, are you smoking pot _in my apartment?_ Get that shit out of here, I _told_ you–"

But no one seems to be listening. Bro grows so unfocused, so distracted, that he completely misses Brandon pulling out a chair and crouching down to grin at you at eye level.

"Brandon, no, don't–" cries that red-haired lady, from behind him. He ignores her.

"Here, kid, I made you some milk." Brandon hands you your blue sippy cup, which you take from him carefully so it won't spill.

"Thank you," you say, because you were kind of thirsty, and because you know your manners. You take a sip—and as soon as the taste hits you, your face scrunches. "It tastes weird."

"That's 'cause it's special milk," Brandon explains. "It makes you grow up big and strong."

"Like reg'lar milk?"

"Yeah, only better."

You take another, larger sip, and grimace. "Don't like it. It's yucky."

"Drink it anyway, or I'll tell your daddy you're being bad. Do you want me to tell on you?"

Uh oh. "No!"

"Good. See, you're a smart kid. Now drink up."

He stares hard at you, watching you closely, and so you take a sip. And another sip. And another. It burns your throat on the way down, and your insides feel uncomfortably warm. You almost spit out a mouthful halfway through, but Brandon says, "Remember what I told you?" and you force it down, swallow after swallow, down to the very last drop.

Urgh, you don't feel so good. In fact, you think you're gonna be...

"Huargh!"

...Sick. You watch, dismayed, as the entirety of the special milk Brandon gave you trickles down the front of your shirt to puddle on the floor. Your legs give out, and you fall back hard on your butt, your head spinning. You don't think you like this special milk at _all_.

"Oh shit," Brandon hisses. "We gotta clean this shit up before Dirk sees it, or he'll fuckin' flip. Sam, grab some paper towels."

The red-haired lady presses her lips together like she's angry at him, but she does as Brandon asked and pulls a handful of paper towels off the roll over the sink. She wads them up and throws them at him, and then stomps off back into the living room.

Brandon grunts and unfurls the paper towels, tossing half of them over the puddle on the floor, which immediately soaks them. He uses the other half of the wad to scrub at your front, but the paper towel pills and smears bile all over you. "Fuck." He stands up and tosses the wadded paper towels in the trash can, just as the crowd parts to reveal the red-haired lady and a concerned, anxious Bro. He strides toward you with a purpose. You shrink back, afraid he'll be upset with you for making such a mess.

"Oh, buddy, no, what happened?" Bro takes the sippy cup from your hands and gives it a sniff. His brow furrows. "Is that... Is that vodka?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Brandon hedges, eyes darting between you, the sippy cup, and Bro.

"He, he told me to drink the special milk," you explain, confused. Brandon hadn't mentioned anything about 'vodka', whatever that is.

"Bran, what the hell? Did you give my three-year-old kid _alcohol_?" Wow, he sounds _really_ mad. Madder than the time you tried to plug the hole in the wall by smearing peanut butter in it. Several of the other partygoers move in closer, attracted by Bro's rising anger.

"Yeah, but come on, is it really such a big deal?" Brandon says with a casual shrug.

"Get out," says Bro, low and dangerous.

"It was just a joke. Take the stick out your ass and–"

He's cut off when Bro's fist blurs and collides with his face.

Brandon staggers back into the people standing directly behind him, who push him forward and back upright. He puts his hand up to his nose and it comes away slick with bright red blood. "Augh, what the fuck? I think you broke my nose!"

"I owed you one. Now get the _fuck_ out of my apartment before I tear your _fucking_ arms off."

"Dude, he's serious," says one of the other men in the crowd. And you believe him. You shrink back further into the space under the kitchen table, clutching at the leg. You've never seen Bro threaten someone like this, and it scares you. His jaw muscles flicker, his knuckles drip-drip-dripping the same sanguine red that's streaming down Brandon's face.

"Come on, Bran, let's go," the red-haired lady pleads with him.

Brandon stares hard at Bro. He's just as tense, and for a moment you are afraid they will fight. But then Brandon grits his teeth and says, "Alright. Alright. But I'm _never_ comin' back, you fuckin' hear me?"

"Not if you know what's good for you," Bro growls. Brandon wrenches the front door open so hard it slams off the wall, and stomps off down the hallway, without bothering to shut it behind him. Then Bro turns his glare toward the remainder of the crowd. "The rest of you, with him. Party's over." They go without argument, filing out one by one and murmuring to each other.

"Sorry, Dirk," says the red-haired lady, when she's the last one left. She tries to put a hand on his shoulder, but he jerks away and refuses to look at her. She casts you both one last backwards glance, and then follows the other people out the door. At least she shuts it.

Even after they're gone, Bro stares angrily at the wall, his hands clenched into fists. Then all at once he lets out a long, quiet sigh, and slumps down onto the futon. There are still several unfinished drinks sitting on the cable spool coffee table. Bro grabs a few of them and pours them all into one. He whistles a little song, six notes which you recognize as the end of 'Happy Birthday', and then he downs his new concoction in one go.

"C'mere, Dave," he calls you, and you cringe. You're still not sure whether you're in trouble for drinking the special milk Brandon gave you. You go to him nonetheless, trudging slowly and making trails in the carpet with your socks. He picks you up when you get to him, and pulls you into his lap.

"How're you feeling, buddy?" he asks when you're situated. His breath smells kind of like the special milk. "Did you throw up all the drink Brandon gave you?"

"Uh huh," you say nervously. "M'sorry."

"No, that's good, that's good. What he gave you was a drink for grown-ups. That's why you got sick."

"Oh."

"Dave…" he sighs with his nose in your hair. "I love you so much. So fuckin' much." You squirm a little, but he only holds you tighter. "I never thought..." he says, and trails off, "but here you are. No one's ever gonna hurt you or take you away from me. I won't let 'em. Promise."

 


	8. Bar Sinister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bar sinister is a heraldic device used to denote bastardy.
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.

\-- February, 2000 --

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you are two-plus-two years old. That's four, by the way. Whenever you do math, your mommy smiles at you and says you're 'precocious'. You're not really sure what that means, but you think it's something good. Your mommy does a lot of math for her job. Sometimes you ask to help her with it, and she laughs and lets you chickenscratch problems for her in crayon on a notebook page.

You're the only child in your preschool who can do math and count to one hundred. (You go to a Monty-sorry preschool, because Mommy says those are the best.) You don't have a lot of friends at school. The other children aren't mean to you, but they tend to leave you alone, forming groups and playing with each other rather than including you. That's just as well; you think books are better company. You like to look at the pictures and try to figure out the words from them. In fact, that's what you're doing right now. Your preschool classroom has a window seat, and it's always warm and toasty when the sunshine comes in, so you're curled up on the cushion with a book. It's not a very hard one. So far, it seems to be about a boy and a talking apple tree.

The teacher and her helper are all the way across the classroom from you, but even with your nose in your book you can hear them talking. It's nothing but background noise, a steady drone, until one of them says "Rose" under her breath. Your head shoots up. When they see you, they immediately stop talking.

You know what this is—your Mommy does it all the time. They're telling secrets.

So you do what you do every time your Mommy is telling secrets and you want to know what they are; you pretend you're not listening. You look back down at your book and start turning the pages slowly, one after another. It works. Eventually they start talking again, and you can tell they're still talking about you.

You're only able to catch snippets here and there.

"... stand close to her mother the other day, when she came to pick her up? I was talking ... could smell the alcohol on her breath from three feet away. And she was supposed to be driving Rose home! The only reason I didn't call the police is that she'd come in a cab."

"Maybe it's because ... doesn't have a husband. Is he dead? Or could it be ... divorced?"

"I was under the impression that ... never married. ... something she mentioned ... Rose's father was very young. I'm not sure ... the details."

"I'm just concerned ... how to deal with it if it comes up in class."

You listen intently. You don't understand it all, but the gist of it is that they aren't being very nice to your mommy. It makes you mad, sure, but you're distracted by one little snippet: "Rose's father".

Almost every child in your class has a daddy. A lot of the boys even brag about them, saying things like, "My daddy could beat up your daddy!" And when you play house, somebody almost always plays the daddy. But you don't have one.

You close your book and leave it on the window seat to come back to later. There's a girl named Lissa at the play-doh station. You walk over and tap her on the shoulder.

"Hi, Rose," Lissa says with a big sunny grin. She's one of the few kids who's openly friendly to you. "I'm making a kitty cat. Do you wanna play too?"

You shake your head no. "I want to ask you a question."

"Okay." Lissa turns to face you, play-doh cat still in hand.

"You have two mommies, right?"

She nods vigorously. "Mommy and Mama Jenny. They love each other sooooo much."

"Do you have a daddy?"

She nods again, slower this time. "My daddy doesn't live with us. Sometimes he comes over and we play, though. He lets me eat ice cream!"

You pause to think this over. Two plus one is... three. Lissa has _three_ whole parents to your one. "How come you have two mommies _and_ a daddy?" you ask, jealous. "You don't need a daddy if you already have two mommies."

Lissa smashes her cat into a shapeless ball in alarm. "You can't take him!" she says. "You already have a daddy too!"

"No I don't!"

"Yuh huh," she insists. "My Mama Jenny told me that everybody has a daddy, even if they don't live with them. She said two mommies can't make a baby, and one mommy can't make one, neither. Only a mommy and a daddy can make a baby."

You think hard about this. If all kids are made from a mommy and a daddy, that means you _have_ to have a daddy, somewhere. But your mommy has never talked about your daddy. Maybe there was some sort of accident, or he just decided he wanted to live someplace else. Maybe he died.

Lissa must think you look sad. She grabs another canister of play-doh, rips off the top, and hands it to you. "Here," she says. "You can make your own daddy out of this."

"Okay," you say, cheered, and start building.

 

By the time the afternoon rolls around and it's time to go home, you've sculpted a masterpiece. Two legs, two arms, a few fingers, a head, and a big long beard. Daddies have beards, right? Sonja's daddy comes to pick her up from school sometimes, and he has a beard. To go along with your daddy, you borrow some of Lissa's play-doh and make a little you. You mush your arm together with your play-doh daddy's so that you're holding hands. Perfect.

One by one, your classmates start to go home with their parents, even Lissa, with her two mommies, and then–

"Rose, sweetie!"

It's your mommy! You don't want to abandon your play-doh family, so you turn and wave her over to come see instead. "Look what I made!"

"What is it?" Your mommy retrieves your backpack from your cubby and comes to stand next to you, bending down to get a closer look at your creation. "Is that Jaspers?"   

"Noooooo," you say, offended. "Can't you tell?" You mash your and your daddy's play-doh feet onto the table so that they're standing up on their own. "This is me," you say, pointing to you. "And the other one is..."

"A wizard?" your mommy asks. "Is that a beard?"

"It's not a wizard."

"Then who is it?"

"It's..." The teacher and her helper are watching surreptitiously, from across the room. You put on your bravest, most casual face, and say calmly, "It's my daddy."

There's a split second in which your mother looks surprised, but she quickly smoothes it out and says, "Oh, how nice. Well, put the play-doh away and let's get going. There's a kitty at home who I'm sure would love to see you!"

You're about to do as she says, when a terrible thought strikes you. Put the play-doh away? That would mean squishing your daddy! You don't want to do that, after you spent so long making him. You start to tear up uncontrollably. But the teacher and her helper are still watching you, and if you cry, they might think your mommy isn't doing a good job being your mommy. You couldn't stand it if they kept telling mean secrets about your family.

No—you will _not_ cry. You're a big girl, not a baby. Big girls don't cry.

With one last sniff, you smush your play-doh daddy back into a shapeless ball and stuff it back inside the canister. Then, nose held high, you march after your mother out of the classroom.

Not a single tear rolls down your cheek.

 

Your mommy doesn't say anything else until the two of you get home, but as soon as you're in the door, she pulls you up into her lap on the couch and pets your hair the way you pet Jaspers. "I think we need to talk," she says, and her voice sounds strange, and thick.

"Okay." You're a little scared.

"Sweetie..." she starts off uncertainly, "about your dad."

Terrified of what she'll say next, you cut her off before she can get any further. "Lissa said everybody has a daddy, and that means I have one too!" you inform her. "Right?"

She smiles a funny little smile. "Lissa's right, baby. Everybody has a dad—even you."

"So... where is he?"

Your mommy inhales deeply and stares over at the wall, like she can see through the wallpaper. "Sometimes," she says, "mommies and daddies are married to each other when they have babies. But sometimes, they're not married. Your dad and I... We weren't married. When you were born, you were like a happy little surprise." She chokes, and to your horror you realize that tears are streaming down her face. She still won't look at you, and for a moment you're deathly afraid you've done something wrong.

"Mommy, no, don't cry!" you plead, wrapping your tiny arms around her shoulders, but that just makes the tears come faster.

"I love you so much, baby," she sobs. "I love you, and I'm sure your daddy loves you too, but he can't be here to tell you himself. He lives far away."

"Where?"

"In Texas, all the way on the other end of the country. That's where you were born, but we moved here when you were still a baby. He couldn't come with us."

"Why not?" You don't understand. If your daddy were here, you wouldn't need to make a play-doh one. He could pick you up from school, and let you eat ice cream, and the teacher and her helper could never say anything bad about your mommy again.

She breathes slowly, in and out, until the tears slow and stop. "Your daddy's life was in Texas," she says. "His job, his friends, and his... his family. He had to stay behind to take care of them."

That doesn't make sense. "But _I'm_ his family! Why doesn't he come take care of _me?_ "

Your mommy hugs you close again. "You're a smart, sweet girl," she says. "One day, I'll tell you why. But not today."

 

The next day at school, when Lissa asks if you want to play house with her and be the daddy, you tell her no. She'd lied to you about daddies—you don't have one.

 


	9. Teach Your Children Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening: "Teach Your Children Well" by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. (Gee!)
> 
> Also, because I'm shameless, a plug for my latest [Homestuck fan song](http://shandyscribs.tumblr.com/post/94942036587/my-latest-track-grimdark-rose-inspired). It's grimdark Rose inspired!
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: dealing with depression.

\-- October, 2002 --

Your name is Dirk Strider. It's late Friday night (or early Saturday, depending how you look at it) and there's a storm rolling through Houston. The rain pounding on the roof over your head creates a constant staccato like a snare roll, and the intermittent thunder provides the booming bass. You lie on your back and stretch, tapping your socked foot against the arm of the futon in time with the beat in your head. The white noise is soothing, and you'll be out like a light soon if it keeps up like this.

The sky flashes like a strobe just outside the kitchen window. Shit, that strike was close. It makes the whole building rattle, and the dishes in the drying rack clink quietly against one another. In the ensuing silence, you just barely make out a gasp coming from the direction of your son's room.

You smile to yourself, and instead of counting the seconds between thunder, you count down until he comes to get in bed with you. Three one-thousand, two one-thousand, one one-thousand. Dave's door opens a crack.

"Bro?"

You shove over and pat the space next to you. "Got a spot for you right here, baby boy. Still warm and everything."

Dave takes a few hesitant steps in your direction. Then another lightning strike cracks nearby, and he leaps onto the futon beside you in a flash. You lift your arm for him obligingly and he nestles snug against your chest. After he's settled and comfortable, he turns his head to glare at you. "I'm not a baby."

As usual, you fail to resist the urge to tease him. "Oh? Try telling that to somebody who _didn't_ wipe your ass for the first two years of your life."

"Whatever." He purses his lips at you, but the kid knows when he's beat.

"Besides, it ain't like I'm ever gonna stop being your dad. Meaning you're still gonna be my baby boy when I'm eighty, and you gotta wipe _my_ ass."

"Eeeeeew, noooo," he whines. But when another peal of thunder rumbles up through the floor, he burrows his face into your chest and hides. "Bro!" he yelps, muffled into your armpit.

Six-almost-seven is a little old to be this scared of thunderstorms, but you've always been an indulgent softie of a parent; so sue you. You ruffle his hair and he relaxes inch by inch.

"Hey, kiddo," you prod him gently, when he's mostly unwound, "what is it about thunder and lightning that scares you so much? You know it can't hurt you in here, right?"

"I know it can't," he mumbles. "Lightning can't zap you unless you're outside, or in the pool or something. We learned that in school. Anyway... I wasn't worried about _me_."

He hugs you tighter, and though he's got the upper body strength of a wet noodle, it feels like your chest is in a vise. Several things slide into place all at once. Like, last year at his birthday party, Dave had gotten jealous when all the other kids wanted to fake-arm-wrestle with you after you'd done it with him and let him win. He's more diligent about looking both ways when crossing the street and holding your hand than any other kid you've met. He interrogates you about every guy you date. ( _Is he handsome? Is he nice to you? Does he like kids?_ ) Sometimes, when you're in a dark place and you can't find the strength of will to pry yourself off the futon in the morning, he brings you breakfast.

He's worried about _you_. You're all Dave has in this world, and he would do anything in his power, limited as it is, to protect you.

You squeeze him back. "I'm not going anywhere, alright?" you murmur into his hair. "I promise."

"Okay," he says, and relaxes again.

He's all you've got, too.

Before long, both of you are drifting off to the quiet rumbling of the passing storm, and by the time the rain slacks off entirely, you're fast asleep.

\--

The next day is sunny and beautiful. It's a little too cool for your favorite weekend activity: going down to the public pool, sidling up to strangers in the water and sighing, "Ahhhhh" really loudly. (Dave's a champion; he'd emptied the whole pool once). Instead, you go to the park. It's close enough to walk, and so you meander down the city sidewalks, Dave balanced on your shoulders and turning your cap to 'steer' you. Here and there lingering puddles reflect the cloudless blue sky, and without fail, he tries to make you walk into every one you come across. You oblige him just to hear him laugh. He's getting too heavy to be on your shoulders at all, but there aren't many things you wouldn't do to make him happy.

When you get to the park, you plant yourself down on one of the benches and turn Dave loose, careful to keep an eye on him. Watching him closely serves a dual purpose—to make sure he stays out of trouble, and to ensure that, should the helicopter moms start getting nervous about what a young guy with tattoos is doing hanging around the park, you can easily call him over to vouch for you as his dad. You'd almost gotten run off a couple times, before Dave was old enough to understand what you needed him to do.

He runs to the playground equipment immediately, climbing the ladder to the monkey bars. You'd taught him to use them last year, and now he can't get enough. "Bro, watch!" he calls, and you give him a thumbs up. He leans back for a little momentum and hurls himself off the ledge, reaching for the second bar instead of the first. He swings from every other bar, reaching as far as his short arms will allow, until he gets to the other end.

"Good job, kiddo," you call back, and he gives a sweeping bow.

Not once in the whole time you're at the park does he ask another kid to play with him, although he agrees to play readily enough when a group of kids approaches him. They invite him to have stick-sword fights, and to climb a tree, and you swear there's one little girl who'd be macking on him if she were old enough to know how. Dave tolerates them just fine, but he treats them as if they're strangers instead of potential friends. You wonder if that's something you should be worried about. (If you chided him about it, though, it'd be a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black.)

The two of you have been far too insular, you realize, to the point of being borderline unhealthy. You wish he had someone more to care about than just you. Or some _thing_. You don't have the money or the space to keep a pet, but you're not so destitute these days that you couldn't spare a one-time expense. Hmm...

 

After the park, you swing by an ATM and pull out the couple hundred bucks you'd been saving as an emergency fund. Dave, wide-eyed, asks what it's for, and you tell him it's for utilities and you're out of checks. He takes the fib at face value.

When you turn off the sidewalk and duck into the stale, nerd-scented air of Babbage's, however, he grows a little more suspicious. Babbage's is at most a twice-a-year trip, a special treat for good grades or a bonus at work. Dave's between report cards, and he knows you're not due for another bonus until Christmas.

"What are we doing here?" he asks, looking around at all the rows of games and software. "I don't even get my progress report for another week." You can tell by his expression that he's trying not to let himself hope for too much.

"You'll see," you tell him, just because you know it'll annoy him. Just as you'd expected, he huffs and wanders off to the back of the store to look at the pitifully small selection of ancient SNES titles. All the better for you to make extravagant purchases behind his back.

"Sup, Strider," nods Barrett, the guy behind the counter. He knows you pretty well, from back when Babbage's was an unfortunate part of your teenage stomping grounds. (He'd rescinded the lifetime ban you'd earned for stealing after you'd appealed to him on the basis that you didn't want your child to grow up in a world without video games.)

You glance to make sure Dave's not looking, lean in over the counter, and inquire conspiratorially as to whether he's got any Xboxes.

"...Is that code for something?" Barrett asks, mouth twisted in confusion.

You run a hand down your face. "Dude, no, I wanna buy my kid an Xbox. Preferably used, if it's cheaper."

"Ohhhh."

When your purchase is complete, you leave the box on the counter (holy shit, consoles are getting heavier and heavier) and go to retrieve Dave from the SNES games. Little does he know he'll soon have a much larger selection to choose from.

"Yo, I have a surprise for you," you tell him upon finding him.

His eyes light up for a split second, but he quickly tamps down on his excitement and says "okay" with a sharp nod. You hate that he expects to be disappointed, that he's so _used_ to it, he's prepared a front of bland disinterest to deal with it. You want to see his faith rewarded. See him smile for once.

When you round the corner and he spots the box on the counter, he fucking _beams_.

"Really?" he gasps, rushing over and standing on his tiptoes to turn the box around and examine the packaging. "This is ours? Like, we get to take it home and keep it?"

Even now, you're not beyond messing with him a bit. "I don't know, squirt," you say with feigned seriousness. "An Xbox is a pretty big responsibility. Only a big kid could handle it."

Dave's mouth drops open. "Bro, come on, I'm totally a big kid! I have my own bed and take showers by myself and everything!"

"And yet, every time you get out the shower and I ask if you washed your butt, you're like 'oh shit!' and you run back in. See?" you say as he frantically tries to jump up and shush you, "You're almost seven and I'm _still_ responsible for the cleanliness of your ass."

"Bro, stooooop!" he whines. "You're making me look uncool!"

Embarrassing the crap out of your kid is one of your favorite pastimes, but you figure you'll let him off the hook for now. "Alright, alright. Go pick out two games you want, and we'll go home and fire it up."

Dave tears off down the aisle like a rocket, never mind what he said about looking cool. He comes back less than thirty seconds later, holding up _Shrek Super Party_ and _Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 3_. The irony is strong in this one.

You make your purchases (Barrett high-fives Dave when he sees what he'd picked), and schlep them all six blocks to the apartment, seriously regretting not taking the truck. Your arms are in danger of falling off by the time you make it to your floor, and you want nothing more than to lie down for a few minutes, but Dave looks so excited... Fuck it—video game time. You unplug your scuffed-up old SNES with a heavy heart, dumping out a few stray crumbs (the console had seen more bread slotted into it when Dave was a baby than the damn toaster), and you let Dave do the honors of plugging the new console in.

"Wow," he gasps, mesmerized at the CG animated startup screen, and at the fact that it can power on without a game inside. He pokes experimentally at the controller when the menu comes up, exploring the memory and music options, which are empty, of course. You gank the controller from him before he can accidentally jack up all the settings, and once the language and time/date features are programmed, you toss it back.

"You should put in a game."

"'Kay. Wanna play?" Dave grins hugely at you, bouncing in place on the futon as he tears into the packaging for _Pro Skater 3_.

You and Dave have enjoyed playing games together ever since he was a toddler. Whether it was smashing shit up as Donkey and Diddy Kong, fighting over the controller for _Mega Man X_ or _Star Fox_ , or racing terribly on purpose at _Biker Mice from Mars_ , it's always been the two of you.

"Only one controller, little dude," you tell him gently. "It's all you."

His smile dims into a confused, disappointed frown. "How come?" he asks.

"Can't afford it right now." And though that's true, you wouldn't have bought two controllers even if you'd had the extra money. As important as the time you spend together is to you, Dave needs to learn a little independence. He needs his own hobbies, his own talents, and his own friends.

"How are we s'posed to play two-player games, then?"

You have an answer already prepared. "How about this: when you go to school on Monday, ask your classmates if any of them have Xboxes. If they do, invite 'em to come over with a game or two and an extra controller. That, or you could go to theirs."

"But what about you, Bro? What if you want to play?"

"Hey, I'll live." You can always just watch, or take turns, or play when Dave's asleep.

"Okay," he says dejectedly. "Guess I'll play by myself."

\--

Dave doesn't stay bummed out for long; his little-kid attention span doesn't stand a chance against the sheer, distracting awesomeness of the new console. Eventually, he even takes your advice—he comes home with friends after school a few times, and they play Halo for hours and hours, laughing and plowing through fruit snacks like miniature tornadoes.

He gets invited to his first sleepover.

Before the event, you call up the other kid's parents to make sure they're legit (they are), you pack a flashlight in Dave's backpack in case of nightmares, you make him recite your cell number at least ten times, and by the time you drop him off, he's patting you on the shoulder and reassuring _you_ that everything will be fine.

You're being ridiculous, you berate yourself on the drive home. This is what you wanted, isn't it? Dave has friends now. Your child is no longer so unhealthily attached to you that he refuses to spend time with anyone else.

And yet, you lie alone and painfully awake on the futon that entire night, staring blindly up into the darkness.

And you miss him.

 


	10. Big House in the Big Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.

\-- May, 2004 --

Your name is Rose, and today is your last day in the only home you've ever known. Your mom got promoted at work to Project Lead, whatever that means, and her employers are paying for the two of you to move into a company-owned house. It's supposedly very big and beautiful, but you don't care. It's not home. _This_ is home. Or, it used to be. Your room is cold and lonely without all the furniture, without your posters and books and all your other accumulated clutter. You hardly recognize it with the floors and the baseboards scrubbed clean, and your unicorn curtains taken down.

You hope the new place has stairs, at least. You've always wanted to live in a place with stairs.

"Are you ready to go, sweetie?" your mother calls from elsewhere in the house. When you look out the window, you can see the movers rolling up the ramp and pulling the door down on the back of the truck—your entire life condensed and packed away into one U-Haul.

"I'm ready!" you call back to her. You give your room one final, lingering look, and you follow your mother to the car. You settle in with your books and your snacks, prepared for the journey from the suburbs to your new home, and Mom pulls the car out the driveway for the very last time.

"Rosie, are you okay?" she asks as you peer out the window back at your old house.

You're confused as to why she'd think you weren't okay, until you realize your cheeks are wet with tears. "I'm fine," you sniff, and wipe them away. "Just a little sad, I guess."

"Well, there's nothing wrong with that," Mom says, and then falls silent, her eyes flicking back to the road. She's guilty about this move. You'd overheard her talking on the phone to one of her friends about how she wasn't sure uprooting the two of you was the best thing for a girl your age, and how worried she was about you attending a new school.

Feh. It's not like you had any friends at your old one anyway. On the contrary, a new school is what you're looking forward to the most. It'll be a fresh start.

Jaspers lets out a piteous meow from his carrier in the back seat, like he disagrees with you. Poor kitty; it's going to be a long drive.

 

You manage to get through half a book before you arrive at your new house. The last forty minutes or so, Mom tries continually to get you to look out the window at the landscape (your new home is deep within the forests of Adirondack State Park), but you're too engrossed in the world of Hogwarts to pay the real world much mind. You find shapeshifting and time-travel escapades far more interesting than stupid, boring trees.

"Here we are," Mom says as you crest one tall, final hill.

You look up, prepared to make some quip about how it's not all that. The book falls from your slack fingers and tumbles to the car floor.

"Oh my god," you breathe, wide-eyed. You're not sure whether to call your new home a house, or a _castle_. It's perched at the top of a waterfall, like something straight out of your books, constructed of stone and wood and concrete and glass. There's even an observatory, which your mind immediately paints as Hogwarts' astronomy tower. You half expect to see Hagrid, the mountainous gamekeeper, come ambling out from the tree line.

"Do you like it?" your mother laughs nervously.

You flash her a genuine, ecstatic smile. " _Yes._ "

"I thought you might."

You've arrived well ahead of the moving crew, and so Mom parks in the garage and lets you in for a tour of the place unfurnished. You enter through the laundry room to the kitchen, and as the space opens up, your voices echo like whispers in a cathedral. The living room is vast and beautiful, exposed timber and natural stone with a carpet inset where the furniture will go. One wall is made entirely of glass, looking out over the waterfall and to the wilderness beyond. On the adjacent hill sits a squat, white building which your mother points out as her new workplace. Not much of a commute.

"Would you like to check out your room next, Rosie?"

"Yes, please," you beam back excitedly.

Mom leads you upstairs (stairs!) and into a separate wing, which contains your bedroom, three guest bedrooms, and an enormous bathroom with a jacuzzi tub and a shower cubicle.

"Wait, you mean this bathroom is _mine?_ "

"Yep! I got my own in the other wing. My own hot water heater, too." (You've been known to take rather lengthy showers now and then.)

Your bedroom is no less impressive. It's spacious and airy, with a panoramic window and plenty of wall space for your furniture and wall hangings. Alas, the window doesn't fit the dimensions of your unicorn curtains, but that's alright. Out here in the shade of the forest, there's no reason (read: no nosy neighbor kids) to have curtains anyway.

The observatory is next on the tour. Mom fiddles with a panel of controls on the wall and the great dome opens up with a slow, grating mechanical grind, revealing a swath of mid-afternoon sky. "Normally you wouldn't do this until nighttime, but I couldn't wait," she says giddily. You have to admit it is pretty cool. It's far too light out to use the telescope, but Mom points out Venus, just barely visible above the treetops. "If you want to, we can have a sleepover up here this weekend, and look at constellations."

"I'd like that," you agree, picturing it in your head. You've never been one for camping, but a quasi-indoors sleepover sounds like a good compromise. "Can we toast marshmallows?"

Mom laughs. "It might have to be over a candle, but I'll see what I can do."

There's little left of the house to tour; just Mom's room and the dining room, and as soon as you're finished, the movers arrive. It takes them the better part of the afternoon to get the furniture set up. After they leave, it's up to you to unpack your things. Mom opens all the boxes for you ("No, I don't think you're incompetent, I just feel more comfortable when I'm the one using the box cutter!") and then leaves you to unpack her own things. You still haven't gotten to all your linens by the time you're wobbling exhausted on your feet, and so you and Mom cuddle up in her bed like you used to when you were littler.

"I really think this is a good move for us, Rosie," she says, idly twining her fingers through your hair and petting it flat again.

"Uh huh," you agree sleepily. It's hard to keep your eyes open.

"Everything's gonna be just fine. We're gonna be fine."

You can't muster up the energy to respond, so you simply drift off into a deep and dreamless sleep, hoping with all your heart that she's right.

\--

Your new school is okay, you guess. It's a private school this time, with a uniform, but you don't mind having to wear it. It's the student body that's the issue. Your mom had tried to sell you on the idea of enrolling you here by saying that the students here would be smarter than in public school, and you'd fit in better, but so far that hasn't been the case. It seems to you that it's less about how smart you are, and more about how much money your family has. Many of the girls in your class have cell phones and iPods and designer dogs, and they stand around talking about how cute the lead singer of Maroon 5 is, even though in their next breaths they decry the perils of 'boy cooties'.

Even though you're different, you're not so conceited that you think you're better than they are. You at least make an attempt to be friends, and you invite three or four girls to a sleepover one Saturday. It's kind of fun having your nails painted and your hair 'styled' with Lainey's crimping iron.

What's not so fun is when you discover they're markedly friendlier with you in class after visiting your house. Samantha even asks if she can have her birthday party at your place, because it has a 'better view' than her parents' own four bedroom mansion. That stings almost worse than if they'd rejected you altogether. The idea that your social value stems from your monetary worth, that they think they can _get_ something out of you in return for their friendship, makes you sad and ashamed. You almost wish you still lived in your tiny little two-bedroom garden home.

\--

You're still moping the next weekend when Mom knocks on your door and tells you she has a surprise for you.

"It's a present," she explains. "You have to come outside to see it."

"A present?" You put on your shoes and follow her, pondering what in the world she could have gotten you that requires you to go outside. You're not exactly the 'outdoorsy' type. Maybe a tire swing? A trampoline? You did mention to her once that you've always wanted to try archery.

"I really hope you like it, because if you don't, well…"

You follow her out the front door, to where an unfamiliar truck is parked in the driveway. There's a horse trailer attached to the back. Something is moving inside.

"Brian, would you?"

A man pushes off from where he'd been leaning against the truck, and walks around to the rear of the horse trailer. He pulls out a few metal pins, and the back of the trailer folds down to become a ramp. You hear a quiet whicker.

"Come on, sweetie." Mom guides you by the shoulders over to where Brian is carefully leading a horse down the ramp. A _horse_. "Her name is Maplehoof."

She's got to be kidding. You're old enough to understand that the two of you have never been wealthy, as evidenced by your second-hand books, and your mother's incessant coupon collecting. Even your new home, as vast and expensive as it is, is company property. Mom had told you her new position came with a raise, but for her to drop the cash for something like _this?_

Your mouth finally catches up with your brain. "Wh- _how?_ Why?"

"I just… wanted to do something nice, after I dragged you out here to the middle of the woods. It's an apology, I guess."

An apology? You're not sure what for. You'd already told her you didn't mind moving out here. Could it be that she's apologizing for something you don't know about? Something that hasn't happened yet? Does she want you to become one of the girls in your class, obsessed with material possessions?

You hope she isn't trying to bribe you. Maybe it isn't fair to be suspicious of her, but there's something nagging at the back of your mind. None of this adds up.

"Are you gonna touch her, Rosie?" Mom prompts you, smiling nervously.

You step closer and reach your hand out very slowly, until it makes contact with Maplehoof's soft, gray-white muzzle. She snorts, and you feel her warm breath against your skin.

"That's it, baby."

You run your hand up Maplehoof's forehead as high as you can reach to her mane, which is silver with dark roots. It's very soft.

"Do you like her?" Mom asks.

"I…" You almost want to say 'no', just to see how Mom would react, or demand to know exactly what she was thinking, but let's be honest—you're an eight-year-old girl and Maplehoof is a goddamn horse. "Of _course_ I do."

Mom sighs with relief, and nods to Brian, who pulls Maplehoof gently by the rope to lead her back up the ramp and into the trailer. "Wonderful. It'll be just a little while before we're set up to house her, but she'll be back soon."

"You mean, we're going to keep her here? But where?"

"I got permission from headquarters to fence off part of the yard into a paddock, and then I figured we could board her at a stable in the winter. Does that sound good?"

Good? It sounds _great._ You can feel your excitement beginning to overtake your suspicion, and with conscious effort, you push any thoughts of your snooty classmates away. This is something you can allow yourself to _enjoy._

"It sounds perfect," you beam. "Thank you, Mom."

\--

Several weeks later, you 'accidentally' leave Maplehoof's hot purple nylon bridle in the duffel bag you use for gym, and dump it out with your gym clothes.

"What's that?" asks Bethany, drawing the attention of Samantha and Lainey.

"Oh," you feign surprise, "that's Maplehoof's bridle. I guess I forgot to take it out my bag after I went riding yesterday."

"You have a _horse_ now?"

"Yes, my mother gave her to me as a gift. She's still young, and not wholly trained, but that's part of the fun."

The looks on their faces are comically jealous, and you have to bite back a smile.

"Anyway, I think I hear coach Shanelle calling. Talk to you later!" and you skip out.

 

Hardly two hours go by before Samantha asks if you'd like to host another slumber party this weekend.

You regretfully (and by 'regretfully' you mean _'with relish'_ ) decline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mom scraped together every penny she had to send me to a private middle school, and it was _awful_.


	11. Bastardette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today because they're both pretty short, and because I'm going to be really busy in the near future doing wedding stuff, and my ability to post may become sporadic closer to the event.
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.

\-- April, 2006 --

It's been a good week. A very good week. Your work projects are going well, you haven't had a drink or a crying jag in months, you've been on a couple of _really_ great dates, and Rose just brought home her third straight-A report card in a row. You're almost as proud of yourself as you are of her. Maybe you don't suck as badly at adulthood as you'd thought.

It's six in the evening, and you're humming happily to yourself as you brown ground meat for your Hamburger Helper. Rose is in her room, working on her homework, an assignment for English class in which she reads and evaluates a short story.

You hear her coming down the stairs just as you put the cover on the skillet to let it simmer. "Hi, baby," you greet her. "D'ya need some homework help?"  As if—even her grades in math, her weakest subject, are near-perfect.

Rose eyes you coolly, her mouth a thin line. Your heart skips a beat on instinct. You know what that look means: you've done something wrong. Who knows what, exactly.

"I could use your help analyzing the story I'm reading," she says levelly.

So this _is_ about her homework? You're confused. "What's the story about?"

"It's about a boy who's ten years younger than his big brother. His parents call him a 'happy surprise'."

 _Oh, shit_. You'd used those very same words to describe Rose, once, when she'd asked about her father. She was too young then to really understand the implications, but now... You didn't expect her to remember after all this time.

"Oh, really. That's interesting!" You try and feign ignorance, but your voice comes out incriminatingly tremorous.

"They _call_ him a happy surprise," says Rose with a poker face like a shark's, "but what they really mean is that he was an accident. They didn't want another child, but they had one anyway. Right, Mom?"

You swallow. "I don't know, sweetie. I'd have to read the story."

You both know that's bullshit. Rose frowns sharply, as if disappointed you didn't take the initiative to tell the truth when given the chance. It makes you feel like she's the adult, and you're the child withering under parental scrutiny.

"Was I an accident, Mom?" she asks point blank.

You freeze up for a few damning seconds, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Well, I... That's not a very nice way of putting it," you finally manage.

"I thought so," she says. She lets out a little sigh, as if your confession had all the emotional impact of a broken fingernail.

You can't leave it at that. "Sweetie... sometimes we make choices, and at the time, we're not sure whether they're right or wrong. But then, years later, we can't imagine our lives being any other way. When we look back, we realize we made the right choice after all."

Rose arches an eyebrow, a natural expression you know she didn't inherit from you. "How long have you been working on that speech?"

"Speech?" you repeat lamely, but your brain supplies you with, _ten years_. You'd hoped this moment would never come, but you'd prepared for it nonetheless. Only, in your imagination, you were always the one to begin the conversation. You told her on your terms.

Somewhere across the house, the phone rings. The food is bubbling on the stove, desperately needing stirring, but neither of you pays it any mind.

"Did you love my father?" Rose asks.

"No," you admit. You never had the chance.

"Did you even _know_ him?"

You look away. "No. I knew his name, and a little bit about him, but not much."

"Tell me," she says.

"I… he…" you begin, searching through your memories for what's safe to tell her, what won't give too much away. "Well, we met in Texas. You know that. I'd just finished my masters, and I was about to start my Ph.D. I went out to a club for my birthday and got drunk, and... that's when I met your dad. He was the DJ."

Rose snorts. "Tell the truth."

"It is!" you insist. "When he was done with his set, he and I went to a motel room, and we–"

"Okay. I believe you." She pinches at her brow. "What else?"

"Well, after that, we went our separate ways. I found out I was pregnant a few weeks later, but I kept it to myself until after you were born." And here is where the whole truth ends, lest you alienate your daughter forever. The only way to successfully lie to Rose is by omission—a skill at which you are very, very practiced. "...And then, when you were four or five months old, we moved. That's it."

She stares hard at you, almost as if she knows there's something you're not telling her. But eventually she decides she's satisfied.

"Does my father know I exist?" she asks.

You think back to the photograph you'd left with Dave on Dirk's doorstep. "Yes."

"Do you know his name?"

Oh god. "Yes."

"Can you arrange for me to speak with him?"

Her eyes are shining with anticipation, and you wish more than anything that you could do this for her and make her _happy_ for once, however... If she ever spoke to her father, she might never again speak to you—and that's the least of the potential consequences. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Who are you to decide that?" she demands.

"I'm your mom."

"And mother knows best, right?"

"In this case, yes," you say with far more firmness than you're feeling.

Rose's facade begins to slip. You watch as her jaw tightens, her fingers curling into loose fists as if she intends to beat her father's contact information out of you. She's all of four-foot-ten, but if she's anything like you at that age, you imagine she'd be scrappy in a fist fight.

You almost wish she'd hit you. It's no more than you feel you deserve from her. But she doesn't. With visible effort, she settles back into her mask of placid calm, but you don't let your guard down yet.

She opens her mouth to speak, and then hesitates.

 _Go on,_ you will her, _say it. Drive that final nail in the coffin. Tell me you hate me._

You wait and wait, but it never comes. The only sound she makes is a soft little, "Okay," and then she turns and leaves the way she came.

You stand stock still until she's gone, and then you slump backwards against the countertop, unnerved and emotionally drained. Every time the two of you have 'fought' in recent memory, it's ended with Rose gaining the upper hand with a few choice barbs, and with you slinking off to drink away your hurt until she deigned to speak with you again. You're not sure whether her sudden restraint is a good sign, or a bad one. You wouldn't bet any money on the former.

The ground meat on the stove begins to scorch. You hurriedly remove it from the heat to salvage it before it's nothing but dry, burnt pebbles. You mix in the rest of the ingredients in a mechanical daze, and wonder exactly when it was when you and your daughter stopped being friends.

 

When you call her down for dinner twenty minutes later, she doesn't come. You label the leftovers 'Rosie' and put them in the fridge for her, knowing they'll be gone in the morning.

 

That night, you curl up in your bed, and you let your mind carry you back ten years and fifteen hundred miles to Houston.

The edges of the photo are worn and dog-eared with handling, but the image itself is pristine. Your baby boy. You turn the picture over in your hands, trying to imagine Dave as he'd look today. Would he still have your nose, like Rose does? Would he ever have grown into those ears?

You wonder if Dave ever lies awake like you're doing now, trying to picture you. Did Dirk tell him about you? Or maybe he got married, and Dave grew up with a mother after all. Maybe Dave never needed you.

You sigh quietly and return the photo to its hiding place, at the bottom of your nightstand drawer, buried under a stack of Playgirl magazines to discourage Rose from snooping.

_Let it go, Roxy. Let him go._

Though you haven't kept tabs on Dave and Dirk in years, you don't know that you'll ever truly be able to let go. There will always be a piece of your heart that belongs to your son—and that is why you may never be truly whole.

 

But you can still be happy. The next day after school, Rose trudges in from the bus, and to your great surprise, she comes up to wrap her arms around you.

"Hi, sweetie," you hug her back, bewildered but pleased.

"I got my analysis of that story all wrong," she says by way of explanation, voice scratchy. "The whole point was that even though the boy's younger brother was an accident, their parents loved him just as much as the kid they'd meant to have." _Oh_. She squeezes you harder.

You sigh happily, a fond smile forming on your face. "I love you more than anything in the world; you know that, right?"

"I do," she says. "And I always have."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the End of Act 1! Act 2 will deal with the period after the kids meet on the internet, and Act 3, well...


	12. X Equals Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 2, yay!
> 
> No way would this chapter EVER have been possible without complexQuanta's [Homestuck pesterlog autoformatting script](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1045803). If you write pesterlogs in fics, check it out!
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.

\-- January, 2007 --

Tutor: so its like i was saying  
Tutor: just think of it as doing times tables backwards  
SMMS1378: but i suck at doing times tables!  
SMMS1378: if i can't do those, i'm boned!  
Tutor: relax ill help you through it  
Tutor: okay lets do problem one  
Tutor: 7x=42  
Tutor: what do you think goes in place of the x  
SMMS1378: i don't know! every time i look at a variable it makes my head spin.  
Tutor: i could try rapping about it do you think that would help  
SMMS1378: NO!!  
Tutor: okay jesus  
Tutor: so think of it this way  
Tutor: what do you have to multiply 7 by to get 42  
SMMS1378: uhhh...  
Tutor: just try something  
Tutor: any number  
SMMS1378: like 5?  
Tutor: sure  
SMMS1378: 7x5=35. that's not enough.  
Tutor: so go higher  
SMMS1378: 7x6=42!  
SMMS1378: x=6!!  
Tutor: fuckin finally

*** Foul language is not permitted, and will result in 0 credit for the session. (Warning 1/3) ***

Tutor: god dammit

*** Foul language is not permitted, and will result in 0 credit for the session. (Warning 2/3) ***

Tutor: i mean  
Tutor: good job  
SMMS1378: hehe, you're kind of a potty mouth!  
Tutor: i cant help it  
SMMS1378: just don't screw up again! i need your help for this next one. :B  
Tutor: yeah you know what  
Tutor: do you have pesterchum or something??  
Tutor: why dont we finish the lesson there  
SMMS1378: okay, sounds good. my chumhandle is ghostyTrickster.  
Tutor: huh  
Tutor: what does that even mean  
Tutor: is that like a ghostbusters reference  
SMMS1378: maaaaaaaaybe.  
Tutor: holy christ thats lame  
SMMS1378: oh stfu and add me, you jackass!!

*** Foul language is not permitted, and will result in 0 credit for the session. (Warning 1/3) ***

You sigh and lean back in your computer chair, taking a long pull off your apple juice box. Tutoring some chucklefuck in basic algebra isn't how you pictured spending your Saturday, but it's mandatory for Mathletes at your school to have at least 15 service hours a year, and this guy needs all the help he can get. Reluctantly, you drag the tutoring session window aside and bring up your chumroll. You type in his username, and lo and behold, he's online.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] at 18:12 --

TG: sup  
GT: that's your chumhandle?  
GT: where do you get off calling MINE lame??  
GT: yours makes you sound like some pretentious hipster douchebag.

You look around your room, eyes darting from your obscure band posters, to your hand-developed photographs, to your collection of preserved dead animals, and you feel strangely guilty.

TG: nuh uh  
GT: well whatever. what's your real name, anyway?  
GT: i don't want to keep calling you tutor in my head.  
GT: mine's john, by the way.  
TG: its dave  
TG: now we should probably get back to this algebra bs  
TG: 6x+8=50  
TG: this one has another step so it might take you longer

There's a pause while ghostyTrickster—John—types.

GT: so dave, where do you live?  
TG: ugh  
TG: come on this is tutoring not irc singles chat  
TG: i got way better things i could be doing than gettin friendly with my fuckin tutee  
TG: like mixing fly beats  
TG: and being awesome  
GT: what's irc?  
TG: god dammit  
GT: hehe.  
GT: soooooo? :B  
TG: i live in texas  
TG: specifically houston  
TG: happy???  
GT: i live right outside of seattle washington.  
GT: i go to seattle magnet middle school though, which is why my username on the tutoring website starts with smms. i think.  
TG: fascinating now solve for x  
GT: do you go to public school?  
TG: haha yeah you couldnt stuff me into a school uniform if you tried  
TG: plus i think bro is too broke to afford the tuition  
TG: anyway what is x  
GT: wait, you live with your brother?  
TG: heh no  
TG: hes my dad  
GT: and you call him bro? that's weird as hell.  
TG: how old is your dad  
GT: like 45 i think? his sideburns are all gray and he smokes an old man pipe, anyway.  
TG: well mines 28  
TG: he still wears air jordans  
TG: and watches south park  
TG: and actively maintains the top five high scores on street fighter ii at the arcade down the street  
TG: hes a total bro  
GT: i see your point.  
GT: i live with my dad too.  
GT: my mom died in a car crash when i was three, so i don't really remember her.  
TG: sorry man that sucks  
GT: a little.  
GT: are your parents divorced?  
TG: never married and i never knew my mom  
GT: oh. well, i should introduce you to some of my friends!  
GT: i know how boring it can get with just your dad around all the time.  
GT: jade and rose are great! i know you're gonna like them.  
TG: who the hell are jade and rose and why would i want to be friends with them??  
GT: jade is my cousin. she lives with our grandpa in hawaiʻi, basically just having adventures all the time.  
GT: you may have heard of my grandpa, actually!  
GT: he founded skaianet.  
TG: wait  
TG: like  
TG: private space exploration corp skaianet???  
GT: yeah, that one.

You're fairly familiar with SkaiaNet—its logo is plastered all over the stadium where you run track meets. You do some quick wiki-hopping, until you find said grandpa's entry. Jacob Harley. When you get to the section on his net worth, your heart about fucking stops.

TG: holy shit  
TG: your family must be loaded as hell  
GT: well, we're not broke!  
GT: i wouldn't say we're THAT loaded, though. grandpa harley wanted us to live 'normal lives', so most of our money is tied up in bonds and trust funds. he also gives away loads to charity and stuff. plus he's retired, so it's not like he's making his full salary anymore.  
TG: i dunno i think anything over six zeros still counts as loaded  
GT: if you say so.  
TG: anyway whos this rose  
GT: she's my english tutor!  
GT: she got recommended because her mom works for skaianet.  
TG: so im not the first unsuspecting tutor to get forcefully dragged into your circle of friends  
GT: nope! :B

Well. There's no harm in snagging a few rich as fuck new chums, is there?

TG: okay whatever you can give them my chumhandle and ill try talking to them  
TG: now what in the name of all that is holy is the answer to 6x+8=50??????  
GT: x=7, duhhhhh.  
GT: do you like video games?  
TG: aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrgh

Within a month, all four of you are best friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing fast and loose with the CrockEngliHarleyBerts' familial relationship in this universe. John and Jade are now cousins instead of siblings, and share Jake and Jane as their grandparents. Also, with the absence of time shenanigans and magic clouds to guide her, John is now the one to bring them together instead of Jade. Friendleader powers, activate!!
> 
> ETA: SkaiaNet in this universe is roughly the equivalent of SpaceX, which makes Grandpa Harley kind of like a cross between Elon Musk and Larry Ellison of Oracle (who owns a goodly chunk of Hawai'i).


	13. Pesterchums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugghhh, posting by phone is the WORST.
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: canon-typical ableist language, boys being crass.

\-- August, 2007 --

\-- ghostyTrickster [GT] opened memo on board WERE MAKIN THIS HAPEN!! --

GT: hi guys!  
GT: are you almost ready to start the movie?

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] responded to memo --

TG: yes  
TG: fuckin sigh

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] responded to memo --

TT: Methinks the lady doth protest too much.  
TG: shut it shakespeare  
TG: you know i only agreed to this because it means i get next pick  
TG: start preparing your anuses for 101 minutes of buddy cop hilarodrama featuring the smooth stylings of snoop as the inimitable huggy bear  
GT: wow, starsky and hutch? that's like the fourth stiller-wilson movie you've made us watch.  
GT: i mean, i love zoolander as much as the next guy, but then there was night at the museum, meet the fockers, and now this?  
GT: it's like you have some kind of fixation.  
TG: thats rich coming from you mr one man nic cage fanclub  
TG: i just really like their dynamic  
TT: Their 'dynamic'? I'd call it sexual tension.  
TT: I spent the whole first half of Zoolander waiting for them to rip off their clothes and have sloppy hate sex.  
TG: loosen your slash goggles before they cut off the circulation to your head  
TG: they are bros and thats it  
TG: one pair in a long and storied history of movie bros  
TG: like simon pegg and nick frost  
TG: matt damon and ben affleck  
TG: dan aykroyd and john belushi  
TG: mel brooks and gene wilder  
TT: Who exactly are you trying to convince here?  
TG: ahahahahaha fuck off  
GT: can we cut the flirting and just get to the movie already?!  
GT: my popcorn's getting stale.

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] responded to memo --

GG: howzit guys!!! :D  
GG: im not late, am i?  
GG: did i miss anything?  
GT: not a goddamn thing.

Flirting, huh? You'd never thought of your playful banter with Dave that way. The idea makes you blush, and you draw your legs up into your computer chair and tuck your face into your knees. At eleven, you still feel a little young to be entertaining thoughts of romance, even though plenty of other sixth-grade girls have 'boyfriends'. You simply can't imagine what someone your age would _do_ on a date. Kiss, maybe? Hold hands? Certainly nothing more racy than that.

You try and picture going on a date with Dave. It's a bit difficult, considering you only have the vaguest idea of what he looks like, given the brief mentions of his appearance that have come up in the course of your conversations. You know he's blond-haired, like you, he's slimly built, and he wears sunglasses. Pretty nebulous. You should ask him for a picture someday.

The idea of kissing Dave? Nah. But if the conversations you've had with him up to this point were actually 'flirting', well. You have no intention of stopping.

GT: okay, let's get this thing started.

When you have your copy of the movie loaded and ready to go, John provides a countdown, so you all start in sync. The Touchstone Pictures and Paramount logos appear in short succession, backed by a music box melody.

GT: omg  
GT: omg

(It's almost embarrassing how excited John gets about dumb Nic Cage flicks. Though, you will admit to being somewhat more enthusiastic than usual about group-watching Harry Potter last weekend.)

The movie finally opens to a spinning carousel, focusing on John Travolta's character riding one of the horses with his young son. The music takes a sinister turn, and the camera cuts to Nic Cage, peering through a sniper scope at Travolta, his target.

TG: holy shit look at that child molester stache  
GG: hehe  
TG: why the hell is there a carousel in the middle of a field anyway  
TG: pretty shitty fair if thats the only attraction  
TG: and nic cage is literally over the next hill with a giant goddamn sniper rifle  
TG: how can no one see him??  
GG: thats a remington 700 btw which is a really nice rifle! :O  
GG: GASP  
GG: OH NOOOOOOO  
TG: oh shit he shot the kid thats fucked up  
TT: What's more fucked up is that no one is coming to their aid. It's suddenly as if John Travolta and his son are the only people in the scene.  
GT: shush you guys, it's a flashback!  
GT: a stylistic simplification of the actual events!  
GT: notice the dreamy filter?  
TG: wow john look at you  
TG: i had no idea you knew anything about narrative film tropes and framing devices  
TG: that was actually kinda  
TG: hot

Of course, then Dave will say things like _that_ , and you wonder whether he was flirting with you after all. He always maintains that he was joking when you ask him about the homoerotic comments, and he explained to you once that 'gay' stuff doesn't bother him because he grew up with it.

> _ TT: Your father is gay? How does that even work? _  
> _ TG: sexuality can be fluid you know_  
>  _ TG: people are allowed to experiment_  
>  _ TT: Point taken._

You'd asked about his mother, once. He'd danced around the subject at first, calling you a Freudophile and trying to distract you with his rambling tangents, but you'd poked and prodded until eventually:

> _ TG: she fucking abandoned me okay???? _  
> _ TG: she dumped me on bro when i was a baby and skedaddled_  
>  _ TG: its kind of a touchy subject_

Appropriately chastised, you'd decided not to bring up his mother to him again. In fact, mothers are a touchy subject amongst all your friend group. John's mother was killed in a car accident when he was three, and both Jade's parents passed away before she was seven—victims to cancer and wounds sustained in action, respectively. And while you may be the only one with a mother, you still envy John and Dave their living, present fathers.

> _ GG: none of us have had very normal upbringings have we?? _  
> _ GG: but then maybe thats what brought us all together in the first place_  
>  _ TT: Solidarity in dysfunction._  
>  _ TG: ill drink to that_
> 
> _ \-- turntechGodhead [TG] is now an idle chum! --_
> 
> _ TG: huh_  
>  _ TG: so thats what happens when you chug an entire gallon of apple juice_  
>  _ GT: what happens?_  
>  _ TG: pretty sure i just took the worlds longest piss_

Nope, you're definitely not interested in dating Dave.

Neither are you particularly interested in John, beyond the realm of friendship.

> _ GT: haha, how do you know the apple juice wasn't piss in the first place? _  
> _ TG: what do you mean_  
>  _ GT: have you ever seen the movie little monsters?_  
>  _ TG: no why_  
>  _ GT: <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nR4JLBG50uA>_  
> _ TG: ok watching now_  
>  _ TG: wait_  
>  _ TG: is he gonna_  
>  _ TG: nooooooooooooooooooo_  
>  _ GT: hehehe_

Sometimes it feels like you and Jade are the only sane members of your foursome. At the very least, neither of you feels the bizarre compulsion to one-up the other every chance you get—which has happened yet _again_ , you realize after snapping out of your reverie back into the present. It's thirty minutes into the movie, and Dave and John's conversation has devolved from playful poking and defensiveness to a total pissing contest.

GT: it isn't my fault you don't recognize a good movie when you see it!  
TG: it isnt my fault nic cage is a shitty actor  
GT: ugh why can't you get it through your thick head that nic cage is playing JOHN TRAVOLTA in nic cage's body??? it's not that hard a concept to digest!  
TG: no i get it  
TG: i just think his performance is shitty beyond my capacity to suspend my disbelief  
TG: like  
TG: hes supposed to be john travoltas character but do you really think "sean archer" could ever be THAT crazy eyed??  
TG: its bullshit  
GT: YOU'RE crazy eyed!  
TG: low blow dude  
TG: you know how sensitive i am about that shit  
TG: bucky beaverson  
GT: hey, that was fucking uncalled for, mr. still keeps a diary.  
TG: its a fucking blog you douche theyre not the same thing  
GT: not from where i'm sitting.  
TG: at least i didnt wet the bed until i was seven  
TG: unlike some people  
GT: what?!  
GT: oh, fuck you!  
GT: i told you that in confidence!  
TG: no dice  
TG: games on bro  
GT: hahaha well guess what?  
GT: rose, did you know that dave got a boner in the locker room shower a couple weeks ago?  
GT: have fun psychoanalyzing that!!  
TG: fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck  
TG: oh yeah well jade did YOU know that john licked his dumb salamander once because he thought it would make him high?  
TG: fucking idiot amirite???

You let out a long, long sigh and begin typing.

TT: Jade? Would you like to leave the boys to it and watch something else?  
TT: I'm thinking Treasure Planet.  
GG: oh heck to the yes!!  
GG: bye guys  
GG: enjoy your cockfight!!! :P

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] and tentacleTherapist [TT] have left the memo --

TG: wait what  
TG: ah shit i guess thats it then  
TG: treasure planet time  
TG: yo wait for me

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] has left the memo --

GT: …   
GT: screw you guys   
GT: more nic cage for me   
GT: *barry white voice* ohhh, yeah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, adorable preteen Freudian semi-blunders... :P
> 
> Brace yourselves.


	14. The Odds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Screw it. SCREW IT. I have everything written but half a scene, and I'm getting married in 40 days. LET'S DO THIS. Posting schedule has been updated to every day until further notice (or unless someone complains I'm spamming the front page).
> 
> Brace yourselves—shit is about to get real.
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.

\-- September, 2007 --

Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and _this can't be happening_.

Rose has never had a lot of friends at school. She's smart, talented, and witty, but she can be acerbic toward strangers, and intolerant of stupidity. Not a lot of people measure up to her standards. Her reputation amongst her classmates is as a frigid bookworm who's uninterested in the socially acceptable topics of boys, clothes, and reality TV. (Too bad—you'd have loved to chat with her about any of those things.)

All those factors had contributed greatly toward your decision to buy Rose a laptop, and to allow her to use Pesterchum. In the past year, she's made three good friends over the online chat client.

Friends whose names came up in a conversation over dinner last night.

One of them is her brother. Your son.

You hadn't thought it was possible at first. There are plenty of kids from Texas named Dave out there. Plenty of Daves in Houston, even. Plenty of kids named Dave who are Rose's age, and who live with their unmarried single fathers. But there's only one Dave Strider, and you thought you'd lost him a long, long time ago.

When she told you his name, you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep your expression level. You saved your meltdown for later, in private, after brute-forcing her laptop password and reading several dozen Pesterlogs. It's _him_. Your Dave, eleven years old now and just as sharp and witty as his sister. You emblazon line upon line of red text into your memory, long-winded metaphors and sarcastic retorts and unexpected moments of genuine sweetness alike.

You spend a whole day gearing yourself up to read the conversations in which he talks about his absent mother, and yet no amount of internal pep talks could have prepared you for the stab in the heart you feel when you discover just how deeply you've hurt him. 'TG: she fucking abandoned me okay????' rings in your head for hours and hours the night after you read it.

You spend the next week walking around in a daze, your body on autopilot as your mind works a mile a minute deciding what to do. Should you keep quiet? If you do, what's the likelihood that Dave will talk, like Rose did, and their father will put two and two together? Maybe you could avoid that kind of situation if you forbade Rose from using Pesterchum. But you can't think of a valid excuse to feed her, and you don't want her to lose her friends.

There is another option: you could come clean. The idea of resuming contact with your son, and finally shedding the weight of so many years of lies, has an appeal that's difficult to ignore. There's just so many ways it could go wrong for you. So many legal implications with the potential to devastate your life. Though you're well past the statute of limitations for child abandonment, there are other things that could bite you in the ass. You're over a decade in arrears on child support, for one.

In the end, Dirk makes the decision for you.

Rose knocks on your office door one Tuesday night, a couple of hours after dinner, laptop in hand. "Mom?"

"Yeah, sweetie?"

She steps inside, and says a little hesitantly, "I was on Pesterchum earlier, when Dave's father messaged me using Dave's chumhandle. He said he likes to keep an eye on who Dave chats with online, and so he'd like to get to know you. I left the chat window open, if you're willing to talk to him."

Get to know you? Bullshit— _he already knows_. Ohhhh, fuck. You swallow hard to keep your dinner from making a reprise appearance. What do you do? Sign off and block Dave's chumhandle forever? If his father's figured out your surname, he could hunt you down in a snap anyway.

It's too soon. You needed more time to prepare. To do _anything_ that might lessen the blow for Rose. Hell, to get a fucking lawyer.

Ding ding, time's up.

"...Mom?"

If you can't engineer this reunion on your own terms, the next best thing is to meet Dirk halfway.

Your lips twitch in a neurotic false smile. "Thanks, sweetie, I think I will talk to him. Do you mind if I bring your laptop in my bedroom while we chat? I promise I'll give it back when I'm done."

Surely she must notice the pallor of your skin, the way your hands are clammy and shaking, the prickle of sweat on your brow. But if she does, she says nothing.

"Alright, I guess." She hands her laptop off to you without further comment.

"I'll just be a minute."

You retreat on unsteady legs to the private sanctuary of your bedroom, close the door behind you, and sit down to uproot the very foundations of your world.

 

It's over an hour before you finally close the chat and fall back on your bed, all the adrenaline draining from your body leaving you limp and nerveless. It... went about as well as could be expected. Dirk was terrifyingly, _justifiably_ angry with you, and yet he was open to reason. He was open to the idea of meeting, of getting to know his daughter and giving you the chance to know your son. You're sure, however, that he's not going to let you off easy. There are a whole host of legal issues that will have to be ironed out before anything can be arranged.

But all that's for later. Right now, you're long overdue for a conversation with Rose.

You find her curled up on the living room sofa, hunched over her Nintendo DS. She shuts it when she sees you and sits up straighter, taking the laptop from your outstretched hands. "What did Mr. Strider want?"

You swallow, and your parched throat clicks. "J-just a minute." There's an unopened bottle of vodka on top of the fridge, and you're sorely tempted, but alcohol seems inappropriate for this situation. You snag two water bottles instead. You sit down on the love seat across from your daughter, passing her one of the bottles, which she takes with a nod of thanks. This is it. Before you begin, you sit still and simply look at her, trying to soak in as much of this moment as possible. It may be the last time you're ever on good terms.

"Rose," you say anxiously, your heart beating a rapid cadence against your ribs, "it's time I told you about your father."

She tilts her head, clearly confused by the direction this conversation has taken, but her widened eyes are alight with ill-concealed excitement. "Okay."

 _Just do it quickly_ , he'd suggested. _Like ripping off a bandaid_. "His name is Dirk Strider."

She doesn't react for a whole five seconds, and then she snorts explosively. "Mom— _hahaha_ —what on earth? I mean, that's a good joke, but it isn't really your style."

"It isn't," you agree. "It's also not a joke."

The smile slowly drops from her face, replaced by an annoyed scowl. "Mom, this is a serious subject for me, and I'd appreciate it if you treated it with a little deference."

"What else can I do but tell the truth?" you say helplessly, hands spread.

She stares you down hard, trying to find some sign that you're joking after all. The silence lasts a good fifteen seconds. In all that time, she finds nothing.

"I…" Her mouth falls open and she lowers her head, her eyes darting back and forth as she processes this new information and begins making connections. "B-but that's impossible!"

"Why is it so impossible?"

"Because that would make Dave–"

"Your twin. You were born either side of midnight," you explain, and there's the first tear, rolling down her cheek unheeded. "You'd have had the same birthday if I'd needed a C-section, but I lucked out."

" _No_ ," she entreats you desperately. "It doesn't make sense!"

"Tell me how it doesn't make sense, Rosie. Think about it. What did you already know about your father?"

"He... he was from Texas," she begins, and you can see her mounting terror as it dawns on her. "He was a DJ, oh _god_ –" She turns her eyes skyward, as if to ask some imaginary deity how she could have been so blind. "I don't understand... All this time I had a brother, and–"

Her eyes drop back to you. Your stomach lurches with renewed dread.

"Wait," she says, and here it is, the final piece of the puzzle falling into place. "Dave told me his mother abandoned him. She dropped him off on his father's doorstep and disappeared without a word."

You take a deep breath. "That's about the gist of it."

" _What?_ "

"It's true."

She shakes her head slowly, her expression crumpling. " _How could you?_ " she sobs. "How could you do that to him? To _me?_ "

"I don't know, baby," you answer her truthfully, as your own tears begin to burn hot in your eyes. You've never been so ashamed in all your life. "I don't know why I did it. I just… did."

"Do you have any idea the kind of damage you caused?"

 _Yes._ "I do. I know."

Rose isn't having any of it. "Bullshit! How could you know? You don't know anything!"

"Roselyn, please, I–"

" _No!_ " she shouts, her nerves fraying almost visibly, replaced by raw, blind panic like you've never witnessed in her before. "Fuck, I just—I _hate_ you! I-I don't want to talk to you!"

It's no more than you deserve. But if you don't get through to her now, you may never have another chance. "Sweetie–"

"Ever!"

She snatches up her laptop again and runs, full out, up the stairs and away from you. You hear her bedroom door slam shut, and her loud, painful, gasping sobs. Your natural instincts tell you to go to your baby and comfort her, but you're the problem. _You're_ the one who made her cry.

You sink into the couch cushions and tilt your head back, so your tears roll across your cheeks and into your hair. Despite all the setbacks you've experienced in your life, despite the egregious mistakes you've made, you're still at heart an optimistic person. You'd prepared to have her hate you, but still you clung to the hope that she'd understand you and what you'd done, and she'd forgive you. Having the worst-case scenario come true hurts. And wouldn't it be _hilarious_ if you got your son back, only to lose your daughter?

You forcefully wrench your thoughts away from all the nightmares and what-ifs, breathing shallowly until you find your center again. Nothing about you has changed in the last thirty minutes; you're still the same optimist you've always been. Sometimes you just have to remind yourself.

This isn't the end. You can fix things. You've made mistake after mistake in your life, but none of them have been insurmountable thus far. You will get your daughter back, and your son, and everything will be wonderful. If it takes a few drinks to help you get there, well. That's the price you'll pay.

Someday, soon, you will be whole again.


	15. The Truth Will Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to avoid duplicating scenes that show up in Neverwere, as it's kind of tedious to re-read, even if it's from someone else's perspective. However, I've made one or two exceptions for scenes that are gravely important. This is one of those scenes. Hopefully the overlap is brief enough that it doesn't get annoying!
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.

\-- September, 2007 --

Your name is Dave Strider, and this is the story all about how your life got flipped, turned upside down.

It's a weeknight, just after dinner, and you're sitting on the futon fidgeting while Bro is in your room, using your computer to try and talk to Rose's mom. He'd gotten all weird when you'd mentioned Rose. Made you show him a picture and everything. For the hundredth time, you wonder what the hell he's trying to suss out. At first you thought he might be pulling a belated 'concerned parent' thing, but that seems unlikely. If he was that worried about internet predators, he wouldn't have built you a computer.

Your palms sweat as you imagine Bro looking through your Pesterchum logs. There isn't much to find; the most you'd done with Rose is some harmless preteen play-flirting, but it'd be hells of embarrassing for him to read it.

You fidget, crossing your legs, uncrossing them, debating whether or not to pick up the Xbox controller and do a little recreational glitching, but the moment your fingers brush the black plastic, your bedroom door opens. You startle, fumbling the controller, and arrange yourself into what you hope is a casual position. En bee dee.

Bro sits down gingerly beside you on the futon. He clears his throat, but doesn't immediately speak. You're already pants-shittingly nervous. You feel like you're going to explode from all the goddamned _tension_ , so you blurt out "I don't get it–" the very same moment he says, "There's something I have to tell you."

You hazard a glance at him. His face is drawn, mouth pulled tight at the corners, and the furrow between his brows is deep enough to get lost in. This can't be good.

Your throat is sticky like you've just chugged a fresh glass of wholesome Elmer's glue, so you swallow before mustering a weak, "Yeah?"

He bites his lip. You've never seen him so hesitant to tell you something—not since the time you asked him about the mechanics of gay sex when you were nine.

"You have a sister."

Wait, what. You have to take a whole five seconds to parse what he'd said. He's gotta be kidding, right? You run through Bro's behavior over the past several months in your head, and nothing in your memory stands out to support his claim. No angry women beating down the door looking for child support, no sneaking around, no suspicious phone calls. In fact, the only strange thing he's done lately is ask to talk to Rose's mom. But that can't have anything to do with this. Can it?

You let out an unconvincing laugh. "Ha ha, Bro, real funny. None of the chicks you've brought home have turned up pregnant; I think I'd know. None of the dudes, for sure." Hell, he hasn't brought a woman home for _that_ in years.

He gives you a look like you're just not getting it. "It's Rose. She's your twin."

This time, the air is punched out of your lungs just as if Bro had taken a bludgeon to your chest. You want to pretend you've misheard him and blame it on your shitty hearing, but that's impossible. You know exactly what he said.

Bro reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a tattered Polaroid. He hands it to you and you take it with a shaking hand, your heart hammering against your ribcage. You're hit with a sense of dread, of _inevitability_ , even before you get a good look at the photo. Somehow, you already know what it shows. Two terrifyingly familiar babies in diapers, propped next to one another, and written on the back is 'Dave and Rose'.

All the blood drains out of your face, leaving you dizzy, and you choke on a laugh-sob. It can't be possible. _He has to have made a mistake_ , you tell yourself, even though your brain is busy supplying you with plenty of evidence to the contrary: same eye shape, same nose, same hair color, born within a day of each other, and _why didn't you ever notice?_ "What?" you breathe. You want to yell it, to _scream_ it at him, but you can't find the air. " _What?_ "

"It's true," says Bro quietly. "When your mom—and her mom—left you here, she left that photo with you."

Bullshit. This is _bullshit_. You go from denial mode straight on into anger, and you ask him in a strained voice, "Bro, what the fuck? How could this happen? How could you not tell me?" Because he's had your whole life to break this to you, and he's only doing it just now, and only because you've already met Rose by chance. He's merely covering his ass at this point.

He takes off his shades and tries to disarm you with that steady, soulful, but-I'm-your-dad stare, but fuck that. You're not going to let him ply you for sympathy, or guilt you into backing down by looking sad. Of course, that only means he moves onto plan B; he tries to talk you down instead.

"Dave," he says, more emotional than you've heard him in a long time, "I hadn't spoken to your mother since the night we met. I didn't know why she did what she did, only that she made a choice to leave you with me and take Rose with her. I didn't know what to say. How was I supposed to explain that to you? Tell you you have a sister, but you'll probably never see her? It was hard enough having to explain things when it was just your mother."

Ah, but there's a flaw in his logic, and in true Lalonde fashion (hah), there's no way you're letting it go. "But I found Rose, didn't I?" you point out. "Fuck, what were the chances? And if I hadn't happened to run into her... what? You just wouldn't have told me?"

He doesn't say anything, just presses his mouth into a thin, incriminating line. Fucking _asshole_. He tries to reach out for you so he can hug you or some shit, but fuck that. For once, you're faster than he is, so you flashstep out of reach and whirl on him.

"This is not cool," you tell him firmly, though your voice doesn't come out as steady as you'd like. "Just leave me alone for a while. Alright? I have to think about this." Bro gives you a sharp, curt little nod, and on that cue, you retreat into your room and slam the door behind you.

You cry a little; you're not ashamed to admit that. You do it quietly, curled up in your closet, biting your knuckle so that Bro won't hear and come to check on you. You're just so damn _overwhelmed_. All your life you've wondered about your mother, but it never occurred to you that you might have a sibling. A half-sibling, maybe—because who knew what your mom got up to after she left you with Bro—but a _twin?_ You're not as much surprised that Bro's managed to keep it a secret all these years, since he's a pretty opaque dude, as you are that you managed to find out anyway. You'd met Rose by chance, through a series of circumstances that almost seem contrived to you in hindsight. Soap opera-esque, even.

(You wonder which of you would be the clichéd 'evil' twin. Probably Rose; she's got a bit of Bro's calculating, manipulative streak in her.)

Speaking of Rose, she's probably freaking the hell out like you are. She's your only true ally in this, and so you figure you ought to ask her how she's holding up, and offer her comfort and commiseration, should she need it. There's just one person you owe a conversation to first.

When you're done crying, you rub your eyes behind your shades and wake your computer up from sleep.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] at 22:20 --

TG: hey dude  
GT: hi dave!  
GT: what's up?  
TG: listen up cause youll probably only hear me say this once  
TG: thank you  
GT: for what? i didn't do anything.  
GT: that i know of, anyway.  
TG: thanks for being my friend  
TG: and for introducing me to rose  
TG: i owe you a big one  
GT: wow, that was awfully nice of you to say.  
GT: it was like you were having an actual positive emotion!  
GT: ...who are you and what have you done with dave?  
TG: eat a dick  
GT: hehehe. there's the jackass we all know and love.  
TG: anyway i gotta go  
TG: just  
TG: thanks  
TG: trust me  
GT: uh. you're welcome?  
GT: bye!

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] at 22:24 --

There. Now that's out of the way, you can talk to your... Fuck. Your sister. Your fingers tremble over the keys.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 22:25 --

TG: hey  
TT: Hello, Dave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[CONTINUED PREVIOUSLY]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/402932/chapters/3102082)


	16. To Hear Your Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.

\-- September, 2007 --

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you've miscalculated. Holy _fuck_ , have you miscalculated. You've always liked to think of yourself as an adult in mind, if not in body, smart and perceptive and difficult to fool. But now, with the rug pulled out from under your feet, you're beginning to understand how utterly wrong you were. How naive.

You were convinced that there was no way your mother, brilliant and accomplished but hopelessly ditzy at times, could ever hide anything from you. Certainly not the fact that you have a _brother_. She's drunk so often, and so talkative; surely she would have let something slip. But your mother has hidden depths, it seems, far deeper and more treacherous than even you could hope to plumb.

"Rose?" she calls, knocking on the door of the dark bathroom in which you've sequestered yourself. She's concerned because it's already been a day since you found out, and shouldn't you be adjusting to the news and getting over it?

"Go away!" you sob back at her. You don't want to talk to her now, and maybe not ever. You'd told her as much last night.

Her feet cast shadows through the light under the door, so you can see when she gives up on trying to talk to you and leaves. Good fucking riddance. You draw your knees up to your chest and sob some more.

Frankly, even you're surprised you're so upset. You hadn't shed so much as a single tear when you were four, and your mother told you that your father wasn't around, or when you were ten, and she admitted you were an accident. But this is different. Those were questions you'd prepared your whole life to have answered. This is _Dave_ , the only person you've ever met who can keep up with the blistering pace of your sarcastic retorts and hold his own. With whom you've spent hours and hours talking, poking at him and being poked at in return. With whom you play-flirted, and wondered whether you might _like_ him. And he's your twin brother. He has been all along.

You try to reach out for that aloof calmness you embodied just yesterday, but right now, all you feel is betrayed.

A 'ping' sounds from the laptop sitting on your toes, and the screen lights up, casting the bathroom in pale blue light and stark shadows. You blink and let your eyes adjust, brushing away the tears, and then tense when you see the name at the top of the Pesterchum window. Speak of the devil. Instead of the normal text chat, an unfamiliar prompt for a voice chat appears. Video is out of the question right now, but you suppose you can do voice. You hesitantly click 'accept' and wait for Pesterchum to connect you.

"What's up, Lalonde," your brother says, and you suck in a breath and hold it. Dave sounds everything and nothing like you'd expected. He has the slight Southern accent, and the slow drawl, but it's smoky and surprisingly soft. His voice hasn't changed yet.

"Hello, Dave." Your nose is still congested with snot from all the crying, and you're a bit embarrassed at how nasal you sound.

Dave clears his throat but has the good grace not to mention it. "Didja get any sleep last night?" he asks.

"Not really."

Judging by his sardonic little laugh, neither did he.

"But hey, listen," he continues, milder, "before we get too off-topic, there's something I gotta say. This situation is fucked up on more levels than I'm able to articulate. Y'know, 'my whole life is a lie', daytime soap kind of bullshit."

"No kidding."

"But I mean, if I had to suffer extreme mental anguish or whatever, I'm glad I at least got a pretty okay sister out of it. I'm glad it was you."

Well, that was... not what you were expecting. It's more honest and open than you've ever heard him, perhaps because for once you're actually _hearing_ him, not reading emotionless walls of red text. Dave goes quiet. He's waiting for you to say something, but he's rendered you speechless.

"You alright over there, Lalonde?" he asks after a moment. There's a note of concern threaded in his voice, like he thinks he's said something wrong.

"Uh, yeah," you croak. "I just. I..."

"Are you always this eloquent?"

"Shush!" you bark. He shushes. You clear your throat with a prim little cough. "What I'm trying to say is, me too. I'm glad to have you as a brother."

"Aww, shucks," he replies, and you can tell he's smiling now by the way his vowels are stretched wide.

From somewhere downstairs comes the crash and tinkle of a glass being dropped. You jolt, and although Dave is hundreds of miles away, the vibrations reach him through the webcam mic.

"What was that?"

You sigh, shuffling your cold toes further under the heat of the laptop. "Nothing. Just Mom getting drunk, predictable as always."

She's cut back quite a bit in recent years. Normally that's a good thing, but it means you're left unprepared for the shock and disappointment every time she goes on a binge.

"Why would y–" He almost calls her 'your mom', but then he catches himself. "It's only ten in the morning over there. Why would she be drinking?"

"Probably because I told her in no uncertain terms that I hate her and I never wish to speak to her again." You say it with a practiced nonchalance, but inside, you feel guilty for driving her into this slip off the wagon.

Dave lets out a drily amused huff. " _You're_ mad at her? All she did to you was withhold the truth. At least she didn't pawn your helpless baby ass off on somebody else."

He has a point, and one that may be worth investigating in depth later on, considering how bitter he's always been about his abandonment. However, "Do you mean to tell me you're not at least a little angry with our father?"

He goes quiet for a minute (yes, you thought so), but he eventually mumbles, "It sounds so weird when you call him that."

"Well, I'm not calling him 'Bro'. That's just ridiculous."

"Your _face_ is ridiculous."

"We're _twins_ , you dingus," you remind him, exasperatedly fond.

"...Not identical, obviously."

"But basically. We both have Mom's nose."

"And Bro's eye-shape, and his ears, I guess."

"Ugh, so _he's_ to blame for the reason all my haircuts cover my ears." You tug your hair down over them and roll your eyes, even though there's no one here to see you. "What a jerk."

"I-I can't stay mad at him forever," Dave says suddenly.

"Oh?"

"The dude raised me. I can tell the silent treatment is eating him up, but I just... I ain't ready to talk to him yet." He makes a noise of frustration. "Can't you like... use your psychoanalytical bullshit to logic me into forgiving him?"

"If I could, I'd have done it to myself," you smile ruefully into the darkness. "These things take time. You'll get there eventually on your own."

"I guess," he concedes. His disappointment is palpable, even over the computer. "But hey, you should call him up sometime. I know he'd like to hear from you."

Your stomach bottoms out. Call your father? Speak to him? You have enough trouble making phone calls to people who _aren't_ estranged family members. "It's a nice idea," you say nervously, "but I don't know."

"When he spilled the beans to me last night, he had this Polaroid snapshot of us as babies, and I'm pretty sure it would've fallen apart if I'd breathed on it any harder. I know he's never met you, but he really loves you anyway. And I... I figure at least one of us kids should talk to the dude."

You feel a bit like panicking just thinking about it, but you offer Dave a quiet "okay" nonetheless. A part of you is even excited. Even if it weren't the right thing to do, your curiosity to get to know your father would have eventually overwhelmed your fear.

The TV turns on downstairs, and you recognize the music from the DVD menu of _Sixteen Candles_. It's your mother's favorite movie for getting drunk and weepy to.

"What about Mom?" you ask, concerned. You're angry with her, but you don't think she deserves to be left in the cold, either.

"I dunno," Dave mumbles. "You probably don't want me talkin' to her right now, with this whole thing so fresh. I'd probably blow up at her or some shit."

"Understandable."

"If she needs somebody, it's gotta be you. At least until I'm able to get my head straight. Sorry, I know that ain't fair."

"It's okay, I don't mind," you assure him, and you're surprised to find that you really don't. No matter how unhappy you are with your mother, you know you don't want to punish her forever. After all, she needs you just as much as you need her—the way it's always been. "I'll speak with her."

"Cool," Dave says. "Thanks."

"I guess I'll talk to you later, then. Auf Wiedersehen, Dave, and take care."

"Yeah, yeah, gesundheit."

You hang up the voice chat with a smile.

 

It takes you awhile to work up the nerve to go downstairs again, considering the way your last conversation with your mother had ended. It's hard to swallow your pride and extend the olive branch when you still feel so lost, and so hurt by her. But when you round the bottom of the stairwell and see her there curled up on the couch, sniffling at Molly Ringwald, it gets easier. "Hi," you say meekly.

Your mother's head shoots up and her red-rimmed eyes find you, wide with surprise. "Rose!" She guiltily glances over at her half-drained martini glass and then back at you. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't think you were coming down."

You offer her the barest of smiles. "As if I'd miss the opportunity to watch Anthony Michael Hall embarrass himself over a pair of underwear."

She grins at you through her tears and snot and scoots over, leaving a place for you beside her on the couch. "C'mon, before I eat all the popcorn."

Truly forgiving her will take time, like you told Dave, but Roxy is your mother and you love her and it's time you can think of no better way to spend.


	17. A Bro By Any Other Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...would smell like gasoline and engine grease?
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this scene.
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.

\-- November, 2007 --

It's three in the afternoon on an idle Sunday when the phone rings. It's the landline, and not your cell (you'd forgotten you even _had_ a landline), and you have to dig it out from a pile of dirty clothes and wires. You fumble for the 'answer call' button and press the phone to your ear. "Dirk Strider."

There's a crackle and a long pause, and you're two seconds from hanging up when a young, feminine voice says, "Well, this is awkward."

"Huh?" Who could possibly— _oh_. Your brain grinds to a halt, and you can hear the rush of your pulse in the tiny space between the phone speaker and your ear. You allow yourself a small, tentative smile. "Rose?"

"...Hi," comes the tinny response. It's your daughter.

The tentative smile becomes a full-on grin. "Hi."

Dave wanders into the living room, probably curious to see who you're talking to. He takes one look at your expression, turns on his heel, and shuffles straight back into his room with his eyebrows in the vicinity of his hairline.

Rose clears her throat and begins hesitantly, "I know it's only a week until we meet each other in person, and Mom has insisted that we should all take this slow, but I-I just. I really wanted to talk to you and get to know you. Is–is that okay? It's not a bad time, is it?"

"No, not at all. I'm glad you called," you assure her, stretching out on the futon and cradling the phone like it's something precious. Roxy had asked you not to contact Rose before your planned meet-up, while you continue to iron out your legal issues, but since Rose called _you_... "I have as much time as you need. Anything you wanna talk about."

"Thank you, I appreciate it."

"F'course."

"So," she starts, and trails off. You wait patiently for her to work up the nerve to say whatever it is she's thinking. "Aghhh. This feels so strange to ask."

"Take your time," you tell her gently. The last thing you want to do is scare her away, or pressure her. Having her in your life in any capacity still seems so new, so fragile, that you're secretly terrified of losing her, of waking up to discover you'd dreamed it all.

"W-What do I call you?" Rose blurts. "I know Dave calls you 'Bro', but that seems strange to me."

"Dave's a strange kid," you joke, and she laughs, light and musical. You've been 'Bro' for so long that anything else will feel bizarre at first, but you believe what she calls you should be up to her. "Sweetness, I'd be happy if you called me Rumpel-fuckin'-stiltskin. You can call me anything you want."

"Could... could I maybe just call you 'Dad'?"

Your breath catches, and you go warm all over. Once upon a time 'Dad' would have made you uncomfortable, but now you think it's definitely something you could get used to. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

"Okay... Dad." She pauses. "Would it be alright if I asked you some things? Dave told me what you look like, and Mom told me some of what she knew about you, but, well, she's only met you one more time than I have. You can ask me things, too."

"Sure," you say, trying not to sound too eager. You'd grilled Dave and Roxy for all the basic info about your daughter they cared to tell you, but ultimately Rose is the best expert on herself. "How about a question for a question?"

"That sounds fair. Hmm." She takes a moment to think. "So, what do you do? Mom said you used to be a DJ, and Dave's mentioned your gigs as well."

"Yeah, that's how your mom and I met." Ah, the good old days. "I still play clubs every so often, but that's my side job. Monday through Friday I'm building car engines."

(Madge, at seventy, still runs Hooper and Sons. She regularly crows that she'll live forever out of sheer spite, and never hand the place over to the wayward—and eponymous—sons.)

"You're a mechanic?" asks Rose. She seems surprised, but you can't tell whether it's pleasantly or otherwise. 'Mechanic' doesn't stack up well against Roxy's 'head software engineer for SkaiaNet'. The courts had agreed, when they'd ordered Roxy to pony up a hundred grand plus interest in back-owed child support.

You hope Rose isn't disappointed.

"Yeah, I'm a mechanic," you admit. "I know it's not as prestigious as your mom's job–"

Rose cuts you off before you can put yourself down any further. "Maybe not, but Mom has zero hands-on skill. She can barely pump her own _gas_. Engines are complex pieces of machinery, so I imagine it took a lot of work to learn how to build them. I think that's impressive."

The corners of your mouth tick up of their own volition. "Thank you." Dave had described her as 'creepy perceptive', and so far she hasn't disappointed. That may be the quickest anyone has ever nailed you down.

"What about you?" you ask her. "What's your best subject in school, and-or favorite hobby?"

"English. I enjoy writing stories, even outside of class. I draw sometimes, and play the violin, but writing's my favorite."

"Violin, really?" Color you impressed.

"Yes. I'm only second chair right now, but I'm hoping to make first chair before the end of eighth grade. That way I can start off as at least third chair in high school orchestra." She pauses, then adds, a little shyer, "I'll play for you while you're here, if you'd like."

"I would like," you grin. "I'd love to read something you've written, too, if that's cool."

"Absolutely. I'll look forward to it."

God, your kids are so freaking _talented_. And smart. And good-looking. You're brimming with paternal pride right now, not gonna lie. "Your turn to ask a question, by the way."

"Okay. Do you like animals?"

Hm, she's still sticking to safe territory for now. "Sure I do. I'd let Dave have a pet, but the place we're living has a no-pet policy. He likes to feed the crows that hang around, though. You?"

"I love cats. I have a black one, named Jaspers because his eyes are orange."

"Huh, mine too."

"And mine are purplish, and Dave's are red, and mom's are sort of pink. ...What's wrong with this family?"

You snort with amusement. "Is that actually your question? Because the answer might take a while, considering how much I enjoy talking about myself."

"No! I, umm... Hm. Crap, give me a second."

You can practically hear her blush over the line, and it's endearing as fuck. It's a reminder that, for all her precociousness, she is at heart a shy, eleven-year-old girl. _Your_ girl.

"Oh!" she exclaims. "Mom doesn't have any living relatives, except an aunt somewhere, I think. Her parents both died before I was two, so I don't have any memory of them. What about on your side of the family?"

Ah, now you're getting to the meat of your little game. You suck in a lungful of air through your teeth. "Difficult question." It's been years since you spoke to any of them; you even lost touch with your Uncle Paulie somewhere along the way. "Both my parents are still kicking, and I have an uncle in Boston, and at least a couple of cousins. I don't ever see any of them, though."

"How come?"

The way she asks, all gentle and soft, makes her sound like a budding shrink. You can't help imagining the futon you're stretched out on is a psychoanalytic couch instead. "We're estranged," you admit. "My parents haven't spoken to me since... Since just after you kids were born, actually. So that's over ten years now."

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry to hear that." Sorry for whom, you wonder. "That reminds me. Mom told me once that you were relatively young when we were born?"

Relatively? Hah. "I was seventeen, just shy of eighteen." You hear Rose's intake of breath. When you think back to the first couple of years you spent raising Dave, still just a kid yourself, even _you're_ not sure how you did it.

As if she were reading your mind, Rose says softly, "I think you must have been very brave."

Her words touch you more than you'd care to admit. "Thanks," you grunt, and your voice is maybe a tad rougher than usual.

"Don't thank me yet," she says cryptically. "There's one more thing I want to ask."

It's supposed to be your turn, but you learn just as much about her from her questions as you do from her answers to your own. "Go ahead, shoot."

"You've always known about me, right?" she ventures, cautious. "Dave said that when Mom left him with you, she also left a photograph of both of us together."

"That's right." Where is this going?

"So... why didn't you ever track me and Mom down? Couldn't the police have matched records somehow and found her for you?"

Oh.

You sigh quietly, away from the mouthpiece, bringing your free hand up to rub at the bridge of your nose. You're a man of your word, and you owe Rose an honest answer.

"All your mom left with me was that picture. Not even her name. It's not as if I didn't search for her at all—I did, for years—but not as thoroughly as I could have. I might've been able to get a court order to search for Dave's original birth certificate, and tracked your mom down that way. Y'know, for child support, or to get an accurate medical history for Dave, and visitation rights with you... but I didn't."

Rose lets out a noise of dismay. "Why not?" she asks, small and quiet. "Didn't you want to meet me?"

"Sweetness, of _course_ I did," you say adamantly. "I thought about you every single day." The worn state of your old Polaroid is a testament to that. "I could make excuses, tell you the reason I didn't try was that I didn't have the money for the court costs and the lawyer, but the truth is, I was scared."

"Scared?" Her voice has a disbelieving edge to it. No one who didn't know you well would ever peg you as a man _afraid_ , but not even you are immune to fear.

"I had to go through a legal gauntlet to get custody of Dave. Home studies and social workers and everything, just like it was an adoption." God, you have so many shitty memories of back then, panic and constant anxiety that they'd take him away. "Getting involved in a legal battle could've opened me up to even more scrutiny from the authorities than I was already under," you explain. "Even a counter-suit, if your mom decided to retaliate and try and get me on child support for you. And then... there was always the possibility that she would change her mind. Take Dave back." You shudder. If there's one thing that invariably strikes fear in you, it's the thought of losing your son.

"She could do that?" Rose asks.

"Yeah. Your mom leaving Dave with me didn't count as abandonment because I'm his biological father—meaning she never officially waived her parental rights. If it came to a custody battle for him, she'd probably have won. I wanted to find you, I really, truly did, but I couldn't risk losing Dave. I'm so, so sorry, but I just couldn't."

Rose falls silent for a moment to process your confession. You hope she doesn't resent you for the decisions you'd made. After so many years spent daydreaming of meeting your daughter, you're afraid it might break you.

"I guess I can see where you're coming from," she says at length. She doesn't sound _happy_ , but at the same time, she isn't angry or hostile. "Thank you for your honesty."

Before you can think of a reply, there's some clatter over the line, and a voice in the background. Rose puts her hand over the mouthpiece, but her responses are audible, if muffled.

"Yes." Pause. "Moooom, no, it's not a boy! Well, sort of. It's Dad." A longer pause. "I know, but _I_ still think it was a good idea to talk to him. He seems really... I'm looking forward to meeting him." You fistpump silently. "Okay, okay."

Another clatter, and then Rose's voice comes through much clearer. "Sorry, that was my mom. She said dinner's ready, so I have to go." She sounds disappointed to have to end the conversation.

"Hey, it's alright," you tell her, although you're just as loath to hang up. "We have to make sure there's still stuff left for us to talk about when we meet in person."

"I'm confident we'll think of something," she says lightly. "I'll... see you soon?"

"Yeah," you smile, "real soon."

 


	18. Nouveau Riche

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another of those chapters that overlaps a bit with a section of Neverwere, but the overlap is minimal.
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.

\-- December, 2007 --

Your name is Dave Strider, you are 11.992 years old, and you are finally on the way to meet your mother and twin sister for the first time in almost as many years.

It's the asscrack of dawn, and your plane has just finished boarding.

"Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened, your tray tables locked, and your seat backs in the upright position until we have reached cruising altitude. When the captain turns off the 'fasten seatbelts' lights you may walk about the cabin, but while you are seated, please leave them fastened, as unexpected turbulence may occur."

The flight attendant continues to give instructions, pointing around at the plane's various features with both hands (huh, you'd thought that was only in movies), but it's drowned out when you slip your earbuds in your ears under your hoodie. Per the instructions, they're not even on; you just don't want to hear the speech. All the safety bullshit makes you nervous. You watch the flight attendant's mouth, and for the remainder of her speech, you dub over it with a rap in your head. This amuses you until she sits down in her little seat and the plane begins to taxi. There's a good five minutes of rolling around at grandma speeds until your plane has the runway. Then the pilot throttles the engines, and not even your headphones can block out the sound. The tarmac falls away, and you grip the armrest a little tighter. The airport and surrounding property quickly turn doll-sized, then ant-sized, then disappear as the plane passes through some low clouds on its ascent. When it emerges, it's to reveal the glitter of predawn Houston spread out below you like jewels scattered across black canvas. Distance turns the sweaty, humid mess of a city into something beautiful. Rose would like the poetry in that sentiment.

The plane banks, tilting the lights of the city out of view, and in the resulting darkness, you see Bro's reflection. His head is turned in your direction while he watches you. You scowl automatically in irritation, but when you realize he can see your reflection too, you smooth your expression back into a poker face to match his own.

You wish he'd quit trying to apologize. He doesn't say it in words, but he keeps trying to slip an arm around your shoulders or ruffle your hair—all the affectionate crap he can't be assed to do when he's not trying to suck up. Well, that's not true. He's always been pretty touchy-feely for a supposedly stoic guy. It's just way more noticeable when you're mad at him, like some kind of thick, suffocating blanket. If he'd just chill and let you come to him, maybe you could put it all aside and actually forgive him. The ironies.

The plane reaches cruising altitude a couple of minutes later, and you think about exploring the aisles, but in the end you make no move to leave your seat. If you did, you'd have to crawl over Bro or ask him to let you pass. Plus, this plane ride is some of the only time you have left to psych yourself up to meeting your mom and Rose. Sure, you'd had plenty of fantasies about meeting your mother when you were a kid, but that's nothing like actually _doing_ it. You need all the preparation time you can get.

The same thoughts keep rattling around in your head. What is your mom like? What kind of person is she? You and Rose had exchanged factoids about your parents, but you still have so many questions. At your behest, Rose had personally called up Bro to get some of hers out of the way. You'd never quite mustered the cojones to call your mom and do the same.

There's one question you're not sure you'll ever be able to ask her: _why me?_

You'd always assumed growing up that your mother had abandoned you because she was incapable of raising a kid, or she was too poor, or because she had conservative parents who wouldn't let her keep you out of wedlock. You'd imagined her as some sort of kind, reluctant martyr figure who had only given you up to ensure you were taken care of. Now that you know you're a twin, and that she kept your sister, the whole equation has changed. The part where she couldn't afford to keep two babies is simple. Her choice of which kid to give up is what's bothering you.

When you'd asked him, Bro had told you the same shtick Rose had: your mom had most likely given you up, and not Rose, because she figured Bro could relate better to you than to a little girl. That makes sense, but even if it actually is the case, you'd rather hear it straight from the proverbial horse's mouth.

Your biggest fear is that it's not the case. What if she left you for some other reason? What if you were a bad baby, or you'd annoyed her, or she just plain didn't want you? What if... What if she'd never loved you? That would certainly explain why she hadn't kept contact. When you'd voiced your concern to Rose, she'd said it was asinine, and you were overreacting. You're not so sure.

Despite a three-hour layover in Detroit, you still don't feel prepared to meet your mother when you finally touch down in Albany. Bro's out of his seat the moment the 'fasten seatbelts' light turns off, stretching his long legs and pulling your carryon luggage out of the overhead baggage compartment. He'd been too cheap to check any luggage, and so the tiny things are absolutely crammed, right up to the weight limit. You struggle for a moment when he hands you yours. Hopefully no one notices.

After you're both off the plane and into your heavy winter coats, you follow Bro through the airport and out the doors leading to the parking lot where you're all supposed to meet. The cold hits you like a wall. Jesus _Christ_. Your chest and arms are warm, but your face is bare, and your jeans are doing nothing to stop the icy wind from knifing right through them. It feels like your nads are going to freeze off.

"Fucking cold," you mutter, shivering half because of the wind chill, and half because your nerves are screaming with anxiety. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Bro reach out like he's going to put an arm around you. You almost let him, because the guy's a living furnace, but no. You're still mad at him. You go to shove him away, and–

"Hello."

You drop Bro's arm and freeze, stunned. There's a woman standing maybe twenty feet away. She's shortish and blonde, with painted lips curved into a smile. Her pink wool overcoat is unbuttoned, and beneath it you see a white lab coat, and a lanyard with an ID tag labeled 'Roxy Lalonde'. It's your _mother_. She's staring straight at you, and her eyes are moist, overflowing, her cheeks ruddy with the cold. Is she happy to see you? Maybe.

You turn your attention to your sister. Rose is standing by your mother's side, her gloved hands clutched at her chest. Her eyes keep darting between you and Bro, and her expression is a mirror of your own—scared and hopeful and happy and a little overwhelmed. Rose's gaze finally settles on you, and she smiles, and whatever it was that was keeping you rooted in place just _breaks_. You sprint across the parking lot faster than you've ever run for track and slam bodily into her, and she lets out an 'oof!' of surprise before squeezing you in a hug. You hold each other tight for a good thirty seconds. Maintaining your bullshit aloof facade doesn't matter, not right now. You may have just met her, but she's your sister, and your dear friend, and you _love_ her.

When you finally break apart, your parents are standing close to one another, having shared their own brief hug. They're watching you and Rose, but each is definitely very aware of the other's presence. You wonder what they think of each other, after all the legal bullshit of the last few months. Bro's shades are off, clipped to the collar of his v-neck, and for once he's actually emoting. He looks... shit, he looks almost sad. Regretful. You don't understand, so you glance back at Rose, silently asking for an explanation. She gives you a meaningful frown, like, ' _well?_ ' and then it dawns on you—Bro's still waiting for you to forgive him. He's been waiting on you and you've dangled it over his head instead, using his mistakes to hurt him. Your gaze drops to your feet. You're suddenly ashamed that you've withheld forgiveness for so long, that you let your stubbornness strain the closest (and until recently, only) familial bond you have.

"Go on," Rose urges you aloud, but the most you can bring yourself to do is drag your eyes back up to meet Bro's, and even that takes monumental effort. But that's enough for him. Instead of waiting for your sorry ass, he comes to you, crushing you in a tight embrace. The last, lingering traces of your anger with him drop away at the contact. Bro has always done his best for you, and he wouldn't have kept his secret if he hadn't truly believed you'd be happier in the dark.

"Bro," you say hoarsely into his chest, but it carries the weight of _I forgive you_ , and _I'm sorry too_ , and _I love you_. He lets you go and smiles. You think he knows.

Your mother has been watching the whole exchange with approval. She nods at Bro, who guides you by the shoulders in her direction until you're standing in front of her. Bro leaves to connect with Rose, and your whole world tunnels and narrows until it's just you and the woman in front of you. She's seemed collected up until this point. You note with satisfaction that, face to face, she's just as apprehensive as you are.

"H-hi, Dave," she says shakily.

"H'lo." Your own voice is scratchy, unsure. She's your mother, but what does that _mean_ to you? Not a whole lot. You should hug her, though. That's the right thing to do. Isn't it?

You shuffle forward, step by step, until you're within reach of her. Her arms come up halfway and then stop. She's waiting for you to make the first move, like you're some sort of feral cat she's afraid will spook at the first whiff of danger. She isn't far off the mark. You force yourself to relax, and your arms to come up around her.

_Come on, Dave, you can do this. Where makin this hapen._

And then you do. Your arms close, light at first and then tighter, and her arms do the same. You're hugging your mother.

_So this is what it feels like._

Though it lasts a good ten seconds, it's over before you have time to fully process it. Mom steps back awkwardly and waves at Bro and Rose, who have just finished doing their thing. "Woo, come on!" she calls out to them, artificially bright. "If we stand around too long, I'm gonna turn blue." They voice their agreement, and all four of you make the short trek through swirling gusts of powdery snow to where Mom's shiny black SUV is parked.

Once you've thrown your luggage in the back, Mom gets in the driver's seat and Bro claims shotgun. You clamber in behind Bro, and Rose sits behind your mother—that way you have a great profile view of Mom, and Rose has one of Bro. Mom navigates skillfully through the tangle of airport exits and out onto the highway. Though the snowy landscape outside is beautiful, you're busy sneaking glances at her to take in her features in detail. You'd gotten her nose and her mouth. You can see Rose looking at Bro, too, trying to pick out all the things she'd inherited from him. Mostly the same stuff you'd inherited; you and Rose look very alike, for mixed-gender fraternal twins. You're still not sure how you ever saw each other's pictures without realizing you were related.

Eventually you pass a large sign informing you that you're entering Adirondack State Park, and the landscape reclaims your attention. It's unlike anything you've seen outside of TV. If there's somewhere that's the opposite of muggy, congested, concrete Houston, this is it. The roads are narrow and hilly, but well-maintained, with snow piled lightly on either side. Many of the trees are bare, icicles hanging from their silver-barked branches, but here and there evergreens stand tall and proud against the cold. Sluggish creeks with frozen edges wind through the gullies and ravines, and now and then you see the movement of animals in the skeletal underbrush.

"I feel like Bear Grylls already," you hear Bro mutter from in front of you.

You think he's being melodramatic, but then even you start to get itchy when Mom turns off the main road and onto a long, steep dirt trail, which is buried full of logs to help provide traction. You've been driving for upwards of an hour now, and you're in the middle of bumfuck _nowhere_. What if somebody gets hurt? What if you run out of food or water, and the SUV breaks down without the parts Bro would need to fix it? You hope to fucking god his joke doesn't become a reality. You're not exactly into the idea of drinking your own piss.

"How much further is it?" you whisper to Rose.

"Just ahead."

Phew.

"We're here," Mom announces as you crest the next hill. You have to swallow a gasp to keep your poker face intact. The house is perched at the top of a waterfall, a cluster of boxy, cantilevered shapes of stone and wood and glass, and it's fucking _huge_. You'd asked about the square footage once, and Rose had given you a figure that could fit at least five of your 800-square apartment, but you hadn't believed her. You do now. Is that an observatory on top? That's an observatory.

You glance at Bro, and though his body language is tightly controlled, you know he's gotta be just as freaked. Neither of you have ever been somewhere so huge and fancy in your lives.

Next to you, Rose looks ashamed. "It's ridiculous, isn't it," she says under her breath. "Obscene."

You want to argue with her that only a rich person would feel _embarrassed_ about living well, that there's nothing 'noble' about standing in the reduced price lunch line at school, or having variations on ramen for dinner the whole week before payday. She has no idea what it was like for you when Bro sat you down and told you he wasn't _angry_ about the D on your report card, but that your grades were important because an academic scholarship was the only way you'd ever afford college tuition. You want to tell her that you'd trade your shitty apartment for this place in a microsecond, that you'd kill to have this kind of wealth, this kind of _security_ , but you don't want to make her feel any guiltier. "I'll reserve judgment till after I've seen the inside," is all you say.

Mom presses a button somewhere overhead, and a garage door opens, which she pulls into. When you pile out of the SUV, you're surprised by how warm it is. The garage is _heated_. Bro hoists all your luggage out of the trunk and carries it inside for you, following your mother, leaving you and Rose to walk in together. She grabs your hand without comment and you let her hold it.

The door from the garage leads through the laundry room, which is fancy, but not too terribly impressive, given its utilitarian purposes. Then you step into the huge open space that functions as a combined kitchen and living room, and your jaw drops. Everything is polished wood floors, thick rugs, modern and yet comfortable brown leather sofas, natural stone, and exposed timber beams. One whole wall is entirely glass, looking out over the waterfall and into the valley, and there's a glass cutout in part of the floor that reveals the burbling stream below. It's unreal. People _live_ here. Your _mother and sister_ live here.

"I'm gonna put these away, if that's alright," Bro says, holding up your luggage. He sounds faintly shell shocked.

"Here, Dirk, let me show you your rooms," Mom offers, and she leads him up the staircase to the second floor hallway. Rooms. Plural. You and Bro each get your own.

"What do you think?" Rose asks quietly, when the two of you are alone.

Again, you have to hold your tongue. You want to tell her that you're practically shaking in your Converse with the irrational fear that your poor kid cooties will rub off and ruin the rugs, that you've never felt so small and insignificant and inadequate, that you can hardly imagine what this must be like for Bro, who's done the best he can to provide for you, but who will never approach this level of wealth; not in ten lifetimes.

In the end, you just look at your feet and clench your jaw until you hear your teeth grind. "It's nice."

"Are you... jealous?"

"Of course I'm fucking jealous!" you bark, a lot louder and bitterer than you'd intended.

Rose flinches away from you. "I-I'm sorry."

Wow, you suck. "Shit, Rose, I didn't mean to snap," you sigh and run a hand through your hair. "And you don't gotta apologize, 'cause it ain't your fault." She didn't choose this life, or choose to leave you out of it, and she doesn't deserve your resentment. Your mother, on the other hand...

Speak of the devil, she and Bro return from upstairs, sans luggage. Mom seems quite a bit more relaxed, now that she's in her own home, but you can tell Bro's barely holding onto his cool, just like you. Dude hasn't had his own room—let alone in a freaking mansion—for years.

"Dave, Rose," Mom calls, "will you two be okay if your dad and I go to the kitchen to catch up?" You're not fooled by the way she uses both your names; the question's addressed to you. Does she think you're that fragile?

"S'fine," you sniff. "I'll get Rose to show me around. Wouldn't wanna get lost."

Bro raises an eyebrow at you, but he gives you a little nod, like, _I trust you to handle your own shit_ , and he and Mom retreat into the kitchen area to talk.

Eventually you grow a pair and start exploring the place, but you kick your shoes off and shrug out of your coat before you do. The rugs are as plush under your socks as you'd imagined them to be. You move from painting to sculpture to item of furniture, listening with half an ear as Rose explains how they're by this artist, or this designer. Only the photography truly captures your interest; one wall features a couple of Ansel Adams originals that make you salivate. They've gotta be worth at least ten grand.

"What does Mom _do?_ " you ask sotto voce, so your parents don't overhear. "I mean, you told me, but still. I didn't think computer programmers made this much money."

"Well..." Rose bites her lip. "Don't repeat this, but a lot of her research is funded by grants from the US Department of Defense. They have her working on... secret things. That's why we live so far away from civilization. They call it 'SkaiaNet Remote Lab'." She pulls you over to the nearest window and points to a squat building sitting atop the adjacent hill. "SkaiaNet pays for us to live here, too, since Mom's the project lead. We have this house until she retires or someone else takes over. By the time that happens, we'll likely be able to afford our own house just as large, even after giving you all that money."

"Ho-lee shit." Your mom's job is _awesome._ Bro's no slouch programmer himself, so you bet he's jealous as fuck. "No wonder she can afford for us all to have separate bedrooms."

"Speaking of which, I ought to show you yours," Rose says. "It's right across from mine."

"Eh... If we have to."

You're still wary of touching anything, but you allow Rose to lead you up the staircase to the second floor. A landing runs along three sides of the main room, decked with even more sculptures and paintings, and doors that lead off to the game room, the library, and the observatory. The bedrooms are in their own separate cubical module, connected to the main space by a short hallway. This place just keeps hitting new and loftier levels of ricockulousness.

"Here's your room," says Rose, pushing open the first bedroom door on the left. You peer apprehensively past her into the dim space. It isn't as huge as you were afraid it might be. There's a double bed, a dresser, a nightstand and a desk, all of which are very inoffensive and practical. It's still decorated to be a generic guest room.

"That'll do," you grunt.

"The next room past yours is Dad's," she says, and holy balls, does it still freak you out when she calls him that, "and... here's mine." She flips on the bedroom light and invites you inside.

Rose's room is an exercise in contrasts. On the one hand, it's clear that Mom spared no expense trying to make her happy. On the other, Rose has made absolutely zero effort to maintain the level of austere cleanliness of the rest of the house. The place is a disaster area. The bed is huge and unmade, with silk sheets and a fancy down comforter all jumbled up in a knot. The floor is strewn with expensive-looking designer clothing, and even more articles hang in the closet. There's a tall bookshelf on one wall, filled with fancy tomes and well-loved paperbacks organized in no discernible order. Nearly every other inch of wall space is taken up by posters and paintings and photographs, hung haphazardly over one another.

One in particular catches your eye. It's a photograph, though not a professional one, in an ostentatious and ill-suited frame. The subject is a white horse with a familiar rider decked out in equestrian gear.

"Rose, what the hell?"

"Oh," she says, stepping closer, "that's me and Maplehoof. I do events sometimes, which is where I got all the ribbons." She nods to a shelf festooned with red and blue ribbons and a couple of trophies. "I would have loved for you to meet her, but we board her at a stable during the winter. Maybe you and I can go riding this summer."

"Uh huh," you mutter. You've never even seen a live horse, except out the window on the occasional drive out of Houston proper. You're not sure you're willing to climb onto a thousand pounds of snorting, stamping animal that could pull a neurotic fucking pirouette off the handle at any moment and throw you. Now Bro, on the other hand...

Rose glances your way, sees your expression, and ducks her head. "You must think I'm terribly spoiled, after seeing all this," she quavers from where she's standing beside you. "I would understand if you didn't want to be friends anymore." You spin around to face her and she's got that guilty, sad look again. She thinks you hate her for growing up rich. She actually believes you're _capable_ of hating her.

"Of _course_ I still want to be your friend," you tell her, and she relaxes almost imperceptibly. "I mean, if I could go back in time and give myself the kind of money you grew up with, I would. Yeah, I'm jealous of all the cool shit you have, but that don't mean you're responsible for me growing up poor."

"I'm still sorry you had to," Rose says quietly.

"The thing is," you tell her with a barely-there smile, "I was _happy_. Bro made sure of that. Anything I really needed, I had. Or I have it now, anyway."

You have enough in back child support that you're set through grad school. Fuck the money, though. What hurts more is that you missed out on having a family. You missed out on _Rose._

She sends you a shy smile back.

"Now come on," you prod her, "you still ain't shown me the observatory. I wanna look at stars and meteors and shit."

"Very well," she says happily, and leads you out of her room.

Having heartfelt conversations tends to leave you itchy in your own skin, and so you ramble on the way to the observatory, mostly just to hear yourself talk.

"I ain't ever looked out of a giant-ass telescope, but way out here with no lights? 'S'gotta be hella dope."

"...Did you just rhyme?"

"It'd be shitty as hell if we actually saw a meteor. If we've got limited time, people'll get even greedier. Stealing shit from each other, 'cause it's the end of our days... Then Fred Phelps'll prolly blame it all on the gays."

"Okay, now I _know_ you're doing it on purpose."

"The point is, there ain't no missile shield to protect us, so a meteor'd send us back in time to homo erectus. Social dissolution, disillusioned by confusion. Look at us now—the 'final chapter' of evolution, plagued by oppression and regressing till we walk on all fours, and our knuckles are bleeding gettin' dragged on the floor. And what's more? We're rubbing sticks together looking for fire. Our humanity, vanity's on a funeral pyre. Down to the wire, with the darkness closin' in overhead, the last man builds his castle with the bones of the–"

"Would you _shut up?_ " she whirls on you. You shut up. But a moment later, she adds quietly under her breath, "That was... actually pretty impressive, for being off the top of your head. Do you think we could freestyle later? I've been practicing my improv poetry."

Maybe this trip won't be so bad.

 


	19. (E)xtra (S)ibling (P)erception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening for this chapter: ["Voices in Winter/In the Realms of the Divine" by Pure Reason Revolution](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KKx0yODlwJs).
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.

\-- December, 2007 --

Your name is Rose Lalonde, it's a sharp, frosty winter's morning, and you have just finished eating breakfast with your family. Your _family._ It's strange how the meaning of the word has shifted entirely, now that it's more than just you and Mom. Now that your father and twin brother are a part of your life.

Said brother is sitting beside you on the sofa, the length of his body wedged against yours as he flips with a critical eye through a photo album your mother has charged him with creating. It's one of two, meant to be filled with old photos of the four of you, one for you and Mom to keep, and one for Dave and Dirk. Dave is taking the project seriously, perusing the large stack of photos and arranging them by date, subject, and composition into visually pleasing album pages. His mouth ticks up a bit when he comes across an ancient snapshot of you as a toddler in nothing but your diaper, red-faced and shrieking, with tears streaming down your cheeks. He flips it over to reveal ' _6/26/97: rosie crying over spilled milk_ ' in pink scrawl.

"Heh, so you weren't always this dignified." You jab an elbow into his side. "Ow."

"I didn't make fun of you for the picture of your head stuck in the railing at the zoo," you point out, though _god_ you'd wanted to, "so I'd appreciate it if you'd extend me the same courtesy. Nobody's childhood is dignified."

"Except for mine," Dirk adds from where he's lounging in the recliner with his beat-up old laptop. "I was perfect."

"I got photographic evidence here that suggests otherwise," Dave says and waves the stack of photos threateningly. "Pretty sure there's one of you with a mullet."

"Lies and slander."

You smile; the photos with Dirk in them are secretly your favorites. There aren't any from when he was very young, presumably because they're still with his estranged parents. There are a few of him as a gawky adolescent, however, and several of him as a teenager. You get to see your father grow up, through bad 80's clothes and his awkward gangly phase, his bar mitzvah, his first school dance, early 90's punk haircuts, and increasingly more tattoos.

Your absolute favorite is a dog-eared photo simply marked ' _APR 96_ ' in orange sharpie. Dirk, exhausted and haggard and way too young, is stretched out asleep on his back, with a four-month-old Dave curled up on his chest. The arm not holding Dave to him is splayed outward, a fresh black tattoo glistening on his inner wrist. Whoever took the photo had obviously meant it as a joke—Dirk's mouth is wide open, a thin string of saliva trailing from the corner—but you think it's lovely.

Present-day Dirk is tapping away idly at his laptop. The ink has gone somewhat blue with age, but the tattoo is still there: two vertical lines with two bowed crossbars, like a warped Roman numeral 'two'. It's the astrological sign for Gemini, the twins.

You wonder if Dave ever figured that one out.

Eventually the stack of unsorted photos dwindles down to nothing, and you've almost caught up to the present day. Dave slots a picture of you and Mom at the beach this past summer next to a hand-developed selfie of him sitting on a grungy rooftop, feeding crows.

"Done," Dave announces. "That's the last of 'em."

Dirk shuts his laptop and climbs out of his chair to see for himself, popping his joints as he walks over. He leans in between you and Dave, flips a few pages, and hums approvingly. "Looks good, kiddo," he says. "You should show it to your mom."

Dave shifts uncomfortably next to you. "I—yeah, in a bit. There's a couple more finishing touches I need to make before I'm ready to hand it over."

He's stalling for time. He's been awkward around your mother ever since the meetup two days ago. Hardly surprising.

"You know what it needs?" Dirk proclaims, straightening up. "New pictures. All four of us are in the same place for the first time ever, so we should commemorate it. Right?"

Dave's head swivels in surprise. "But I didn't bring any of my darkroom supplies!" he protests. "I got my camera with me, but no way to develop."

"Mom has a perfectly adequate photo printer that you're welcome to use," you volunteer. Dave shoots you a dirty look at the words 'photo printer', but you couldn't care less about his purist hang-ups right now. You want this to be a thing that happens. It's only been two days since you got your family back; there's a lot of lost time to make up for. "I know it's not what you're used to, but we could always take digital pictures and print them out."

Dave pulls a face, but he doesn't argue. "I guess."

"C'mon," you urge him, hopping to your feet and hoisting him up with you. "Let's go find Mom and tell her." The way you figure, if the two of you are together, it's bound to be less awkward for Dave.

He hesitates for a split second, but he follows you.

Mom, of course, thinks taking new photos for the album is a fabulous idea, and she puts you and Dave in charge of arranging the camera and the scenery. Dave wants to go outside and take pictures with the natural beauty of the snowy waterfall as a backdrop, but you and Dirk veto that almost immediately. You'd rather not freeze your ears off, thanks. In the end, you compromise by taking pictures in front of the glass wall, with the landscape in the background. If it weren't for the way you're all dressed for the indoors, no one could tell you weren't outside anyway.

First, you take a picture of all of you together. Dave fiddles with the camera settings until he finds something he likes, then sets the camera on the back of the sofa and runs to join you. Ten seconds later, the shutter clicks, and Dave retrieves the camera to inspect the damage.

"Well, it could be worse," he says, and you and Mom share a smug grin at the way he'd hemmed and hawed earlier about how crappy the digital camera was. And it is a nice picture; Mom and Dirk are standing in the back, shoulders brushing, with you in front of Dirk, and Dave in front of Mom. If there's tension between any of the four of you, it's not visible in the photo. In fact, you all look pretty happy. Your brother in particular has a very nice smile. It's exactly like yours.

"We should take a few more, just to make sure we've got something print-worthy."

You all shuffle back into your places for another shot, then you try switching it up. You take a silly face picture. Then you take one of just you and Mom. Then Dave and Dirk have their own picture, and then Dave and Mom, then you and Dirk, and finally, one of you and Dave. A second before Dirk presses the shutter release, you snake your arm up behind Dave's back to give him rabbit ears. Dirk bursts out laughing, and you wonder why—you didn't think it was _that_ funny—until you see on the digital screen that Dave had given you rabbit ears, too.

"They really are twins," your mother marvels.

That gives you an idea.

\--

"This is stupid."

"Shhh!" you hiss. "I'm trying to concentrate." You stare harder into your brother's blood-red eyes, but all you can see in them is mild annoyance. Your foreheads are getting sweaty where they're pressed together.

"It ain't gonna work," he says. "We're only fraternal twins, not to mention we grew up on opposite ends of the country."

"You were the one who pointed out that–"

"–we finish each other's sentences sometimes? It happens with John, too, but I'm pretty sure I'm not related to him." He doesn't move away, though. You bat your eyelashes and stick out your lower lip in a pout he can't help but acknowledge from this distance. "Fiiiine," he groans, "one more time. What am I thinking about?"

You spend a moment studying the shapes of his eyes and the delicate latticework of his irises, vivid red, flecked with gold and amaranth, and then it comes to you.

"Daft Punk," you whisper.

Dave jerks away from you like he's been burned, rubbing at the pink spot on his forehead. " _What._ "

"You were thinking of Daft Punk."

"Yeah, okay, but _how did you know?_ " he demands. He looks so genuinely alarmed, a giggle slips out of you. "Goddammit, what's so funny?"

"You said it yourself," you explain. "Just a second ago. You said 'one more time', and as soon as the words were out of your mouth, the song by Daft Punk popped into my head. It wasn't much of a leap to think it might have popped into yours too."

Dave scowls. "That's not twin ESP then; it's just a good guess. Anybody with half a brain could do that."

"Fine then, O ESP expert. What kind of 'test' would you have us do?"

He drums his fingers against his thigh, thinking. "Hm. Do you have any safety pins or anything like that?"

You giggle helplessly when you realize what he intends to suggest. "I didn't know you had a thing for pain, Dave. Would you like me to loan you some literature on S&M and pain play?" Not that you have any; just an active imagination, and the internet.

"What? No!" he yelps. "Not like _that_. I just figured we could test whether we feel each other's pain. Y'know, like, go to opposite ends of the house, and then poke ourselves and ask each other if we felt it."

"Oh, I know," you say, still grinning.

Dave fumes. "I have a brand new 360 I haven't even touched because of this, you know," he grumbles.

You ignore him and turn to rifle through the untouched sewing kit your mother had bought you once. "Here," you say, pulling out two straight pins. You drop one into your brother's outstretched palm. "Do you have your phone with you?"

"Yeah, why?" he mutters.

"You stay here in my room, and I'll go to the dining room, which is as far away as I can get without going outside. When I text you the okay, poke yourself somewhere on your body. Don't tell me where. When you're done, let me know, and I'll text you back telling you whether I felt any pain, and if so, where."

"A'ight," he nods. "Got it."

You palm the second pin, stow your cell phone in your pocket, and make your way down to the dining room.

To get there, you have to pass through the living room. Your parents are both there, though they appear to be ignoring one another. Dirk is typing away on his laptop again, and your mother is engrossed in an episode of Wild Kingdom with a half-empty martini glass on the end table beside her. At least they're not fighting.

You slip past without them noticing and dart into the dining room. You leave the lights off, for sensory deprivation to heighten your sense of touch (and for the spookiness).

' _I'm here; go ahead_ ,' you text Dave.

You wait for a few moments in silence, watching the shadows dance in the tiny light of your phone. Though you're generally a logical person, there's a part of you that still dreams that magic is real. You want this to be real.

Tick tock.

What is Dave doing? It's been a full minute, but you don't feel anything. Maybe you have to concentrate harder. You let your eyes fall closed, and–

The phone vibrates in your palm, and nearly frightens you out of your skin. Dave has texted you back.

' _ok done did you feel anything_ '

You heave a disappointed sigh and open up a new text to reply in the negative, but when your thumb brushes the phone keyboard, a tiny twinge of pain travels up from the pad. You blink.

' _Thumb of your right hand?_ ' you type out and send.

This time, his response is immediate. ' _holy shit_ '

Excitement flares up in your chest, and you fidget giddily. You can't believe it worked! However, as Jade would tell you, true empirical evidence gathering requires a repeat performance. ' _My turn,_ ' you text him, and you grip your pin between forefinger and thumb. When you receive Dave's affirmative, you pull down your sock and jab yourself lightly on the left ankle. Ow. ' _I'm finished. Results?_ '

' _uh_ ,' Dave sends back, ' _was it the inside of your left arm_ '

Damn. ' _Sadly, no. It was my left ankle._ ' Despite the fact that it would have raised a whole slew of unsettling questions, you wish it had worked.

' _shit im sorry_ ,' says Dave. ' _although it could just be that youre more sensitive to this fancy esp shit than i am_ '

' _Maybe_ ,' you reply glumly.

' _wanna come back upstairs and play xbox?_ '

' _Okay._ '

You store your phone in your pocket and slide open the dining room door, blinking in the light of the kitchen.

Quiet voices echo from the living room, so you peek around the corner to see what's going on. Joy of joys, your parents are now in the middle of an argument.

"–already got a hundred thousan' dollars out of me!" Mom slurs in an angry stage whisper. The martini glass on the end table is empty now, and she sounds tipsy.

"Oh, boo-fuckin'-hoo, Moneybags," Dirk growls. "I know you could've paid twice that without even feelin' it, so don't try to act like it was some big hardship." His Southern accent, usually quite mild, is more pronounced when he's angry.

"So that's what you want, huh? More money?"

"No, goddammit! I just... I want some acknowledgment that you weren't robbed blind for no good reason. That we deserved the money."

" _Dave_ , yeah! He's a kid, he's not old 'nough to work an' earn his own cash. You are, Dirk. It isn't my fault you're still only a mechanic. Just 'cause _you_ never made anything of yourself—"

Dirk's eyes widen and he barks out a humorless, incredulous laugh. "Seriously? Not all of us came into this with Masters degrees, Lalonde."

"I know, but–" Mom tries to say, but he talks right over her.

"I was barely eighteen when you dumped Dave on me. I never _made_ anything of myself because I was busy makin' sure our son didn't _starve!_ Don't you dare put me down for spendin' all my time and money on him, and not college."

Your mother winces. "Arright, I know that was unfair of me to say, but I wazz'n... I wasn't try'na..." She shakes her head; her buzz is apparently too strong.

Dirk sees the weakness and pounces on it. "Jesus, how loaded _are_ you?" he asks with a nasty, triumphant sneer. His knuckles are white where he's gripping the edges of his laptop. "Have you ever driven drunk with Rose in the vehicle? How many times have you put my daughter–"

"Our daughter!"

"–at risk because you couldn't go twenty minutes without knockin' one back?"

"Never!" your mother bites back, dangerously close to shrieking. "How dare you even suggest that I would do something like that? There's no way on this earth I'd put 'er'n danger! I love Rose, an' I would do _anything_ for her. It would kill me if I lost 'er."

"Yeah? Well, you survived losing Dave just fine."

Oh, damn.

Mom's mouth drops open in shock, and to your horror, tears well up in her eyes and begin to spill over. "No I didn't, Dirk," she says in a hoarse near-whisper. "No I didn't."

Dirk at least has the decency to look ashamed he made your mother cry, but neither does he apologize or offer her any comfort. He's too proud. Instead he sits rooted in place, jaw clenched, and turns his attention back to his laptop screen.

Neither of them ever noticed you.

You retreat slowly back into the dark, quiet sanctuary of the dining room, your own tears burning hot down your cheeks. You knew this family reunion wasn't going to be the perfect fairytale of your childhood fantasies, where your parents got married and you all lived together happily ever after, and yet you weren't prepared to see this level of dysfunction. They were supposed to get along, at least. You weren't supposed to see this side of your father, the cruel, vindictive Dirk who knows exactly what to say to tear somebody down.

(Maybe one of the reasons you're so upset is that the way he treated your mother reminds you uncomfortably of yourself. You understand now where you get it from.)

The phone in your pocket vibrates.

' _rose whats wrong are you okay_ '

You blink at the message through wet, gummy eyelashes. There's no way Dave could have heard your parents arguing from your bedroom on the other end of the house, or known how upset it made you. Unless...

You wipe your face on your sleeve as best you can, then burst from your hiding place and sprint across the living room toward the staircase. You ignore Dirk's surprised and guilty " _Rose?_ " and take the steps two at a time. You don't particularly want to talk to either of your parents right now. Thankfully, they leave you be.

When you open your bedroom door, you find your brother pacing the limited floor space like an agitated tiger. He whirls to face you when you enter, the corners of his mouth drawn into a frown. You'd almost say he's worried about you.

"Rose, christ. What happened?"

You flop backwards onto your bed, letting out an explosive sigh. "What do you think happened?" you ask, willing your eyes to stay dry.

"How should I know? I could just tell you were upset."

You turn your head to look at him, eyebrows raised. "And how exactly could you tell that, from across the house?"

Dave stops pacing and spins to face you, then opens his mouth, closes it. "I don't know," he says finally. "I just had this weird kinda... _feeling_."

Though five minutes ago it would have made your day, all you manage is a weak smile. "Cool."

Dave plants his shoulders against the wall and leans, like one of those ridiculous plywood cowboy silhouettes, watching you from behind his shades. It's like a feedback loop—he senses your upset, making him worry, and you then sense his worry, which keeps you upset. It's subtle, but noticeable now that you're looking for it. Whether your connection is paranormal in nature, or whether it's merely subconscious body language cues and garden-variety intuition, it's comforting. It makes you feel... close.

"So…" Dave says. "I got something for you."

"Oh?" you play along, even though you're not really in the mood to be cheered.

"Lemme just go grab it." He jogs across the corridor to his bedroom, and returns only a few seconds later. "I know we said we weren't gonna get presents for each other, but I brought one for you anyway. Nothing big." He hands you a jewel case inexpertly wrapped with Happy Birthday paper. "I was gonna give it to you tomorrow, but I figured you could use a boost about now."

Intrigued, you tear at the paper to reveal a burned CD, with 'to my sister' written across the memo section in angular red chickenscratch.

"What is it?"

Dave settles on the bottom corner of your bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. "It's a CD for this kinda obscure band. In hindsight, you've probably never heard of them." Typical. "I... thought you'd like them, though. They're called 'Pure Reason Revolution'."

"What genre are they?" you ask cautiously. From what you know of Dave's taste in music, you don't have much in common.

His mouth twists with reluctant amusement. "I guess you could call it... dorky, cerebral prog rock with abstruse lyrics about wizards and shit?"

"...Huh." Well, color you at least marginally interested.

Dave holds out his CD player and a pair of Beats headphones, and you take them, fitting them over your ears. You have to get Dave to show you how to pop the CD player open, but once he has, you swat his hands away, insert the CD and push 'play'.

Though you're not sure what to expect, it starts off well. A single chord, slowly built upon, gives the impression of a sunrise. ' _He showed them magic in the Dark Third unknown_ ,' sing a male and female vocalist, voices twining in an ethereal harmony, backed by violins and moody, heavy guitars. You close your eyes, and imagine the music as a backdrop to tales of fantastic creatures, beautiful landscapes, and powerful sorcerers. The overall effect is a sense of magic, and wonderment.

"Thank you. It's perfect," you admit, grudgingly impressed. You know for a fact that this isn't something he would have enjoyed listening to on his own, meaning he must have purposefully sought it out. For you.

"No prob." Dave is feeling pleased with himself. There's nothing in his posture or his expression to give it away; you just know. "Now. Wanna see if this freaky-deaky twin shit has any effect on whether I can kick your ass at glitching Tony Hawk into light posts?"

"You're on," you grin.

(It doesn't, by the way. He absolutely flattens you, but that's okay. You're just glad to have his company.)

 

' _Happy birthday, Dave_ ,' you text him at exactly 11:56 that night, long after the two of you have gone to bed. You don't get a reply for several minutes, and you're sure he must be asleep, until your phone lights up at exactly 12:04.

' _you too_ '

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are also a fan of wizards, atmospheric prog rock, or like Evanescence but wish it was a little less emo, then I highly recommend giving Pure Reason Revolution a listen!
> 
> You can find the full album _The Dark Third_ [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=48Ia0u_AtnU), but I particularly recommend the tracks [Bullitts Dominae](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxTwa3TTHNA), [Goshen's Remains](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDHW8bsHB0w), and [The Bright Ambassadors of Morning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=48Ia0u_AtnU&list=PLNcL6FVRJ0C4buNELqu4U06Rx7gE7ZGYx).
> 
> PS: getting his head stuck in the railing at the zoo is absolutely something my little brother did.


	20. No Place Like Where the Heart Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.

\-- December, 2007 --

Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and today is your last full day with your son before he and Dirk return home to Texas. You're heartbroken that he has to go, but he's already missed a week of schoolwork, and Dirk is out of vacation time for the year. You just wish you had a little longer with them—and you're not the only one.

Rose has been enamored with Dirk since the moment she laid eyes on him. She's always wanted to meet her father, and now that she has, she thinks the world of him. It's obvious by the way they interact that Dirk is just as smitten. He's sat for several of Rose's impromptu violin recitals, helped her edit some of her writing, and has given her more piggyback rides than any adult's spine should be capable of handling. You know Rose will be upset once he's gone.

Of course, things are different when Dirk is interacting with you. When you're not arguing about something or other, he's polite but reserved, guarded, like he's still not sure what to make of you. You wish it didn't have to be that way; you like Dirk a lot. He's a handsome man, whip-smart and witty and charming when he wants to be. You can see why you were attracted to him all those years ago. (Hell, you'd probably _still_ sleep with him if he asked.)

But for you, this reunion isn't about Dirk. It's about Dave, your little boy, all grown up and on the cusp of puberty in what feels like the blink of an eye. The tiny baby you'd given up is almost as tall as you now, with your nose, his father's eyes, and a flawless blend of your smiles.

When you'd left Dave with Dirk, you'd been somewhat concerned with how Dave would turn out, considering Dirk was so young and ill-prepared. You needn't have worried—Dave has flourished in his care. A-average student, Mathlete, track star; he's so perfect, it's hard to keep your eyes off him. You'll be talking with Dirk, and Dave will catch your attention from the corner of your eye, and all your responses will melt into distracted "uh huh"s and "yeah"s. You don't know whether you should feel relieved Dave's so well-adjusted, or jealous that you had no part in raising him.

To make yourself feel better, you get into the habit of cataloging all the parts of Dave that are indisputably yours. The lines of his jaw, rounder than Dirk's sharp angles; his hair, pale and baby fine, where Dirk's is darker and coarser and frizzier; his build, smallish and slender like yours, against Dirk's towering athleticism. All obvious, immutable commonalities, and yet they give you little comfort. There are parts of him that may never be yours. Parts of him like his trust, and his love.

You want nothing more than to try and earn Dave's trust for yourself, but he's been keeping his distance from you. It's not hard to understand why. He's lived the better part of his life motherless, with the knowledge that you abandoned him. He needs space and time to forgive you. You have to let him come to you. It's just so, so hard, when you want nothing more than to hold him and be there for him and tell him everything's gonna be alright... and to be his mother.

You can call him your son all you want, but the truth is that he's Dirk's son in all the ways that matter.

Maybe Dirk can help you change that.

 

"Can I talk to you a minute?" you ask under your breath, when you find Dirk sitting on the living room floor playing Scrabble with Rose and Dave.

He sets a 'Q' tile back in his rack (he's down by thirty points, but his letters are Q-U-I-X-O-T-C) and he glances at you over his shades. His eyes are sharp and orange, just like you remember them. Scrutinizing.

"I need your help," you add, fidgeting under his gaze. You really don't want to have to beg; not in front of Rose and Dave.

Fortunately, he's game enough to at least hear you out. He sighs through his nose and pushes himself to his feet. "I'll be back in a bit," he tells the kids. "And don't peek at my tiles, either. If you do, I'll _know._ "

Rose smiles innocently. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Yeah, don't," Dave mutters, "he's got eyes in the back of his head. Found that one out the hard way."

"Oh?"

"...I don't wanna talk about it."

The ease with which the three of them get along warms your heart and threatens to break it all at once. Why can't you have that?

You bite your lip and turn to leave, willing yourself not to get emotional now, of all times, and Dirk trails after you to the dining room. You slide the door shut behind him so you can have some privacy.

Dirk folds himself into one of the chairs and crosses his thick arms over his chest. "So, what is it about this time?" he asks levelly. Hostile or merely appraising; you can never tell from this side of those ridiculous black shades. Still waters, and all.

"I'm not going to grill you or judge you," you tell him, "and this isn't about money. I want to make that clear right off the bat." Sadly, you've had enough tense discussions by this point that the disclaimer is necessary.

He seems to relax a bit, uncrossing his arms and hitching one ankle onto the opposite thigh. "Okay then. What can I do you for?"

"I just... I need some advice. About Dave."

A dark eyebrow rises over the top of Dirk's shades. "What about him?"

You look down at your hands, curled into fists atop the table. You and Dirk have had discussions about custody, birth certificates, child support, medical histories, personal histories, and sex, and yet you've never felt this vulnerable opening up to him.

"I don't know what to do," you swallow. "I love him so much, and I miss him, and I just want to be his mom, but he won't let me in. I know I should let him come to me in his own time, but you're leaving tomorrow, and then I won't get to see him for another six months, and... and I–"

The tears you'd been fighting off earlier finally break through your resolve, and you choke on a sob. Goddammit, you don't want to do this; not in front of _him._ He owes you nothing but contempt. You're the one who abandoned Dave in the first place. You don't deserve Dirk's sympathy, much less his advice.

You hide your face in your arms and cry, mortified and ashamed at your lack of control. To your surprise, you feel one of Dirk's broad, warm palms begin to skim back and forth over your shoulders. You can't think of any way to respond, so you just sit there and shudder while he touches you, waiting for your emotions to settle down.

"Y'know, this would be a lot more awkward if I hadn't already learned how to deal with crying people," Dirk says after a while, in his soft, rumbling baritone. "Kind of inescapable when you raise a kid."

You lift your head a fraction of an inch to look at him. "I didn't imagine Dave as the crying type," you sniff.

"He isn't, but he's not some kind of robot, either. There've been times he couldn't help it. Like... hm." Dirk shifts lower in his seat and the corner of his mouth twitches up in an introspective little smile. "When he was nine, he broke his arm trying to follow a crow up the fire escape to the roof of our building. I think he was more upset that I was going to be mad at him than he was about the pain. He didn't start crying until he got back downstairs and had to tell me what happened."

You hiccup a little laugh. You can almost picture it in your head, given that Rose has done similar things in the past. When she was five, she'd gotten her hands on your razor and nicked herself, and hid the bleeding from you for a whole hour.

"Dave's an amazing kid," Dirk says, a little quieter. "He's smart, and he's talented, and he may not have as much sense in his head as Rose does, but he's got a lot of heart to make up for it. And I... I think it would be a shame if you didn't get the chance to see that for yourself. So. I'd be happy to help you."

Though it's impossible to get a read on him, your intuition tells you he really is willing to help. But that can't be _it_ , can it? Maybe there's a catch. In your experience, there always is.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" you ask.

Dirk's nostrils flare, his mouth tightening to a thin line, and you know you've misstepped. "A, because I'm not a total dickhole, despite what you might believe, and B, because our kids deserve better than to have us at each other's fuckin' throats all the time." You agree—you'd seen Rose's face, after she'd overheard you and Dirk fighting. "And yeah, things are complicated, and we don't always get along, but in the end, what's most important to me is that Dave gets to know his mom. Now," he says, leaning forward, "what can I do to help?"

If you want to get closer to your son, it seems there's no choice but to trust Dirk. "I... I want Dave to talk to me before you leave tomorrow. Just one real conversation, so I can try to get through to him. Maybe you could set it up for me?"

Dirk removes his hand from your shoulders, and you immediately miss the warmth. "Huh," he says flatly. "Well, as much as you keep saying you want him to come to you, I think it'd help if you actually showed some interest in _him_ , first."

"Interest?" you echo, and now it's your turn to be offended. Is he really implying you're not _interested_ in your own son? "What the hell do you mean by that?"

He crosses his arms again. "You can't just buy him off with a new Xbox and a child support check, Roxy; you have to actually _interact_ with him sometimes. Ever since we got here, you've been keeping your distance as much as Dave has. I don't know if you're scared he'll reject you or what, but to him, it probably seems like you're not concerned with getting to know him. Like you don't care."

Your mouth drops open in horror. "But I do!"

"So, show him that. Approach him by asking about his interests or something. Get him to talk about himself."

It seems way too simple, considering the mind-games and the scrutiny to which Rose subjects most of your sincere gestures.

"...Do you think that will work?" you ask uncertainly.

To your surprise, Dirk snorts out a laugh. "If there's anything a Strider can't resist, it's talking about himself. Trust me."

The tension begins to drain from the room, leaving you far more relaxed. Try as Dirk might to affect a gruff asshole persona, he is at times surprisingly kind.

"So, what should I bring up?"

"Try music. He's been spinning records since he was eight, and lately he's gotten pretty handy with production software. He's got a demo or two of mixes that I'm sure he'd let you listen to, if you asked nicely."

You'd had no idea. You don't know a lot about making music, but Dave's accomplishments sound pretty impressive, something easy to connect over. Maybe this can work.

"Thank you so much, Dirk," you say as you wipe the corners of your eyes. "I owe you."

"Nah, anytime," he smiles. "Like I said, just... show Dave that you care. It might not happen right away, but he'll come around."

You want so badly to believe Dirk, and right now, hope is about the only thing you've got going for you. Maybe, just this once, your wish will come true.

 

Early in the evening you find Dave alone in the game room, idly shooting pool with his headphones on. You don't mean to take him by surprise, but when he turns and sees you he jumps like a startled cat. He pulls his headphones off, cheeks crimson. "Uh. Hey."

"Hi, Davy," you say, and your stomach ties in knots. Maybe you should have rehearsed this. "What were you listening to?"

He's got his shades on, but his eyebrows twitch behind them and you get the impression he's blinking in bewilderment. "Um. The Chemical Brothers?" It comes out like a question.

"Cool," you nod, relieved that it's someone you've actually heard of. Rose had warned you before they arrived that Dave had a predilection for the ironic and the obscure. "What album?"

"Exit Planet Dust." He shifts awkwardly on his feet. "I like their newer stuff, but you can't go wrong with the classics."

"Hear hear." Of course, 'classics' for you is more like Duran Duran, Tears For Fears, and A Flock of Seagulls. Fuck, you love new wave.

"But then, I think we're all products of our generations," Dave says while chalking his pool cue, as if he'd read your mind. "I mean, I grew up with Portishead and Snoop and Daft Punk, but Bro's all about Nirvana and N.W.A. and Nine Inch Nails. And... well, you're a few years older than him, so I'm sure you could tell me all about Cyndi Lauper and shi- _stuff_."

He rambles when he's nervous, just like you. How fucking adorable is that?

"I think you're probably right!" you grin. "Well, about everybody being products of their generations; I didn't really listen to Cyndi Lauper that much." You're a big fat liar—you still have her debut album stashed away somewhere in the dark bowels of your record collection. "Actually, what I'm most interested in is _your_ music."

Dave fumbles the shot he was attempting and straightens up, letting the butt of his cue thunk hollowly against the floor. "My music?" he asks, surprised.

"Dirk told me you've been composing for a while now," you explain, and lean your hip against the side of the table.

"Since I was ten," Dave nods. "Bro gave me a set of custom decks, and then last year he built me a computer with music software on it. I've been makin' tracks in my spare time and trying to put together some demos. They're still pretty rough at this stage, but I'm gettin' better at it."

The shyness melts away as he speaks, drowned out by obvious passion for what he does. Dirk had given you an even better in than you'd realized.

"If you have any of your music with you, I'd love to hear it," you volunteer. You don't have to play at enthusiasm at all—you're genuinely interested to hear what kinds of things he's come up with. To learn what kind of person your son really is.

Dave goes quiet for a minute and you get the impression he's sizing you up, trying to judge whether you're faking or not. Eventually he decides you're for real, and he gives you another sharp little nod.

"'Kay. Come with me, then."

You follow him obediently around the corner and into the adjacent wing, where Rose's room and the three guest bedrooms are located. He pushes through the door to the first room on the left and immediately sets to digging in his suitcase for something or other. Even though this is your home, and therefore technically your room, you're still quite conscious when you step past the door that you're entering his space. You sit quietly on the bed and wait for him to find what he's looking for.

"Here," he says, and he holds out his headphones, now connected to a CD player. They're very nice headphones, you notice. You fit them over your ears while Dave fiddles with the CD player and finds the track he wants. "This is one of my newer ones. Kinda synthy and drum-heavy. I figure you might like it, since it's got a lot of retro influences."

You've never been a music critic or a connoisseur, but you can tell right away that Dave is very, very good. The synths build up first, dark and ambient, backed by a low-key throbbing bassline that sets the basic tune. Little by little the song grows more intense, culminating in a deep bass drop—and then everything just _opens up_. The melody comes in, bursting triumphantly through punchy drums and accompanied by subtler synth harmonies. Your finger taps against your thigh of its own volition. You get so lost in the music, you don't even realize the song has wound down and faded into the next track until Dave reaches out and tentatively plucks the headphones from your head.

"Did you like it?" Though he's trying to sound calm and disinterested, you can tell he's anything but. His shades are pushed up, his impossible red eyes searching yours, and giving away more of himself than you think he intends.

"I _loved_ it," you tell him firmly. "It was powerful, and beautiful, and... Well, I don't know how much it'll mean to you, but I'm proud of you, Dave." And you are.

His face lights up in ways you wouldn't have thought possible, given his usual blank expression. "I... Here," he says, and pops open the CD player to retrieve the CD. "You can have it. I got other copies at home."

"Thank you." You take it from him gingerly, rolling it under the light to examine the words written across the top in angular red sharpie: 'eff yeah beats'. Your son is beaming at you, and your heart's soaring— _you did it_ —and maybe love really _does_ make you dumb, because you proceed to ruin all your progress in one fell swoop.

"Don't leave tomorrow," you blurt.

Dave's smile falters at the edges. "What?"

It's too late to take it back. You panic, and in your fear, you start to ramble. _Just like him_. "I-I mean, you don't have to go back to Texas, if you don't want. You're absolutely welcome to stay, and live here with me and Rose." When you get no reaction, your fear turns to desperation. "I want you to stay. Please don't go. Please." Your voice cracks. "I love you, Dave."

But you've lost him before the last word is even out your mouth. He shuts down in the blink of an eye, goes as cold and as closed off as a thing of stone. "No," he says. That one little word stings harder than a well-placed backhand.

"No?" you repeat dumbly.

"This place... This isn't my home. My place is with Bro—you know, the guy who raised me? Did you really think you could just–" For a half second, genuine _anger_ flashes across his features, but then he bites his lip and it's gone. "Whatever. The answer is no."

Your vision starts to swim, and you grip the CD in your hand so tightly it creaks. But in the end, what can you do? You can't make him stay, and you can't make him love you. You never should have tried.

"Okay," you say quietly. "Okay." Dave looks away as you force your clumsy wooden body to its feet, and slowly turn your back on what may have been your only chance at earning his trust.

Your face is a mask as you walk the halls back toward your room. See? You can do it too, when you have to. And yet, you're unprepared to face Dirk when you encounter him at the top of the stairs.

"Sup," he says casually, and it dawns on you that he can't tell anything's wrong. You'd like to keep it that way. "Did you get to talk to Dave?"

"Yeah, I did," you nod, just as casual.

"And? How'd it go?"

_Please don't go. I love you, Dave._

_No. This isn't my home._

You meet Dirk's eyes, and you force a smile. "It went well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, misguided Roxy. She isn't very good at this...


	21. The Noogie of Familial Affection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.

\-- December, 2007 --

Your name is Dirk, and though you really should be trying to get some sleep before your flight tomorrow, it's been eluding you for the past hour. You haven't slept well all week, in fact. After years of crashing on a cheap, lumpy futon, the bed in Roxy Lalonde's guest room is _too_ comfortable.

Far be it from you to complain, though. Coming here and meeting your daughter for the first time, when previously you'd thought you'd never get that chance, has been nothing short of life-changing. You've held Rose in your arms. You get to be a _dad_ to her from now on. You can call her on the weekends, and send her stupid cards, and buy her pointless little gifts, like you've always wanted to. (Hell, you'd buy her a pony if she didn't already have one.) You love her more than you thought was possible, and the prospect of leaving tomorrow looms like a physical ache in your chest.

At least you'll have a small piece of her to take with you, in the form of dozens and dozens of photographs. The album had been Roxy's idea: photos chronicling her and Rose's lives, interspersed with photos of you and Dave. You have mixed feelings about the album. The entire concept is disingenuous, in your opinion—pretending the kids were raised together won't magically change the past. Worse, seeing all the moments in Rose's life you missed out on makes you want to drink, or hit something, neither of which is very constructive. But it's better than nothing. You can look at the photos of your daughter at three, at five, at nine, and imagine what it will be like when you're _in_ the photos, when she's thirteen and sixteen and twenty. You can still help her grow up.

Dave, too. You're relieved beyond words that he's finally come around and started speaking to you again. The days of little kid possessiveness are long gone, but it still hurt like hell to have him all but ignore you for two months. You're a doer, a _fixer_ , and it took all your self-restraint to sit back and let him work out his totally justified anger with you. If possible, you feel even closer to him, now that there are no secrets between you. The fracture has mended stronger than it was before.

As for Dave's relationship with Roxy, you're not so sure. Hard as you'd tried to raise Dave happy and whole, there's been a part of him damaged since he was old enough to understand what Roxy had done. You knew it was a bit of a risk sending her to talk to him. It seems to have turned out well, but you have no illusions that one little chat is enough to fix a lifetime's worth of issues. You don't expect their relationship to heal quickly.

And then there's you and Roxy. Your anger with her for what she'd done to your family notwithstanding, you're still not sure what, if anything, you feel for her. Yes, she's the mother of your children, but that's more of an intellectual reality than an emotion. Do you actually _like_ her? It's hard to say. You don't have much in common, besides Dave and Rose. You will admit, however, that this trip has been beneficial to you in helping you understand her. There's no denying after seeing her with them that she loves the kids just as much as you do. And whatever your personal feelings toward Roxy, you absolutely do respect her. It isn't easy to raise a child alone, no matter your financial circumstances, but she'd done well with Rose.

You're on the verge of picking up the photo album just to look at Rose again, when you hear a familiar pattern of knocks on your bedroom door.

"Come on in, kiddo," you call, swinging your legs over the side of the bed so you can sit up, and Dave opens the door and trudges in. You can immediately tell something's off. He looks paler than usual, hands jammed into his pockets and his shoulders hovering around his ears. "Dave. What's wrong?"

Though his shades are pushed up into his hair, he won't make eye contact. "Mom came and talked to me earlier."

"Yeah?" you say, confused. Roxy'd told you their conversation had gone well. Had she lied? You swear to god, if she's done anything to hurt Dave... "What did she say to you?"

His answer isn't what you expected. "She said... I don't have to leave with you tomorrow. I can stay here if I want."

Dread lodges in the pit of your stomach, heavy and visceral, and you go from protective to panicked in the space of a breath. " _What?_ "

"You know. She said I can live here for good."

When it sinks in, you have to fight the sudden urge to throttle yourself, because _why didn't you see this coming?_ You played right into Roxy's hand this afternoon. Your greatest, secret fear, what you'd written off as baseless paranoia for so many years, is actually happening. She's trying to steal Dave from you. She's going to take away your son, and what's more, _you told her how to do it._

Even worse is that it makes sense. Unlike you, Roxy's got money, and a lucrative career, and _Rose_ , and while she may have abandoned Dave once, you know she wouldn't do it again. Not ever.

Under any other circumstances, you would move mountains to keep Dave with you... but you have to do what's best for him. Maybe this is it. If he wants to stay with Roxy, you've got to let him go. Even if you don't want to. Even if it kills you inside.

"It's chill if you wanna stay," you force yourself to say around the lump in your throat. "We could always renegotiate custody. I mean, your sister lives here, and you could go to a private school, and get a real allowance, and–"

"Bro," he cuts you off, and your head snaps up. "I already told Mom I'd rather live at home. With you." Curiously, his shoulders come up even higher. "I mean. If you still want me, anyway."

Ow, fuck, your heart. "If I still _want_ you?" You hope to god he's not serious, because if your child legitimately thought for even one second that you might not want him anymore, you'd have to seppuku on the spot. "Dave, c'mere."

He obeys cautiously, approaching you with halting steps like he's afraid you're mad at him. He's totally unprepared when, instead of popping him one, you reach out and snatch him up for a righteous bear hug. He makes an embarrassing little squeak at first, but after a few seconds he lets out the breath he'd been holding and his shoulders come down.

"You don't ever have to wonder, I promise," you assure him. "The day I stop wanting you around is the day they bury me. Alright?" He nods into your shoulder. You open your mouth to tell him how much you love him, but the words stick in your craw, like they're too big and warm to come out of you. Instead, you give him a tight squeeze and kiss the top of his head.

"Dude, gross!" he protests, and tries to squirm out of your hold. Normally he doesn't mind you showing him physical affection, but you guess there's only so many _feelings_ he can handle at a time. You get it. You slacken your hold on him, let him think he's escaped for a second, and then you tug him back in, this time for a vicious noogie.

"That's right, you little turd," you growl as you muss his hair beyond the point of recovery. "Submit to the noogie of familial affection."

"I submit, asshole!" he grunts, muffled into your armpit, and you let him go. He flops down onto the bed beside you, hair a-ruffle and dignity bruised, but he's grinning. And he's still yours.

"Hey..." you say, and Dave's eyes flick to meet yours. "Out of curiosity, why choose me? Why not stay with your mom?"

He looks back up at the ceiling, his grin melting into a pensive little frown, and says, "She might be my mother biologically, but... She was never there for me. She wasn't my _mom_." For a minute, he sounds so sad. Then he shakes his head as if clearing an etch-a-sketch and elbows you in the shoulder. "You, on the other hand, have always been my dad."

"Or your 'Bro'," you point out, and he shrugs.

"Same diff."

So yeah, you're upset with Roxy for offering him a home here without consulting you first—and if this conversation didn't feel like it was in confidence, you might confront her about it—but you can't fault her for wanting to keep Dave this time around. He's perfect.


	22. Twelve Years Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Aaand the power's out at work! Posting from my phone.
> 
> Suggested listening: ["Upwards Over the Mountain" by Iron & Wine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Kh09MuIfIU)
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: none. However, I would be remiss if I didn't recommend having a tissue or two on hand.
> 
> Let me just slip into something a little more comfortable... *wrestles way into life preserver*

\-- July, 2008 --

Your name is Dave Strider, and sometimes you wish you could run and hide from it all. But who doesn't? Everyone knows it's easier to abscond from your issues than it is to face them head on. The problem is, there's no escaping this one. She follows you around wherever you go, clamoring for your attention like a petulant two-year-old. Which is sad, because in reality she's thirty-six. And—oh yeah—also your mother.

"Davy," she whines, and entreats you with impossibly huge eyes to come downstairs for dinner. She's been doing this every night since you arrived a week ago, and she hasn't convinced you yet. "Come on, I set a place for you and everything."

"Thanks, but no thanks." You turn back to your iPhone (a recent gift) and tap in a few new lines of text to Egbert, pretending you can't see how hurt Mom is in the reflection inside your shades.

"Please?"

Dammit. You hate it when she begs. "Look, I appreciate the thought, but I like it better in here. Just get Rose to bring my plate up or something."

"...Alright," your mother says, but she doesn't leave right away. She stands in the doorway for a whole minute, waiting for you to change your mind. Once it's clear that's not going to happen, she gives up with a sad little sigh and leaves, shutting the door behind her.

You grit your teeth until you hear her muffled footsteps on the stairs, but your jimmies remain rustled even after she's long gone. You look down at what you'd been typing to Egbert.

TG: why why why why why why why

You let out an irritated 'tch', tossing the phone on the nightstand and flopping backwards onto the bed. _Your_ bed. This had been a guest room before the Touching Family Reunion a few months ago, but since then your mother has redecorated it to suit what you guess she thought was your taste. The comforter has _sports_ on it. You don't know the first goddamn thing about sports other than track. If it was Bro, you could have played it off as irony, but irony isn't Mom's schtick. She honestly didn't know any better. She doesn't know you. And yeah, that's partially your fault (last December she'd offered to let you live here, and you'd turned her down), but hey, she'd had twelve years before that to call you up, and she never did.

The door clicks open again and Rose glides in, holding two tall glasses of milk and balancing plates on her forearm. You watch her from upside-down as she sits gingerly on the other end of the bed and unloads your dinners onto your desk. Normally it annoys you when she comes in your room and gets all up in your shit, but tonight it feels like a gesture of solidarity. "Thanks."

"Not a problem," Rose says airily.

You roll rightside up and fold yourself into a sitting position beside her. "Oh sweet, meatloaf." That's one good thing about spending half the summer here at the Lalonde residence—the food. Bro never did learn to cook more than breakfast food, soup, and pasta. You both tuck in, shoulder to shoulder, and you try to absorb some of her unflappable equanimity through your skin.

Halfway through the meal, Rose swallows and turns to you. "Mom thinks you're still mad at her. She's not just imagining things, is she?"

"...Dammit," you mutter and put your fork back down. You were hoping to avoid this conversation, but it would be foolish to think Rose wouldn't notice the lingering tension between you and Mom, and doubly foolish to think she wouldn't ask about it. Girl is nosy as fuck. There's no point in lying, either. Rose could take you apart piece by piece and put you back together in her sleep.

"I don't know if I've forgiven her yet," you mumble into your glass of milk. You leave a myriad things unspoken.

_For choosing you._

_For abandoning me._

_For thinking she can just waltz back into my life, and we'll all be this big, happy family._

You know Rose understands. Even if she wasn't your twin, she has this way of getting into people's heads that borders on creepy. "It's okay to be angry, Dave," she says. "I was too, remember."

A frustrated groan rattles up your throat. "I know, I know. You keep telling me it's okay, but I still feel like shit when I treat her like I'm mad, because I know she's trying. I don't want to punish her for that. It seems... petty."

Rose opens her mouth to reply, but she catches herself and the words never form. Instead, she scrapes up the last of her meatloaf and takes a large bite, chewing thoughtfully. You follow her lead, scarfing down your peas and carrots and all but licking the gravy from your plate. Neither you nor Bro ever had much use for table manners.

When she's finished, Rose turns back to you and sends you a rueful half-smile. "As much as it pains me to admit, I don't think I can say much to help you."

"Psh. Holy shit, stop the presses."

"I will say this, though," she continues, unfazed by your sarcasm. "You don't owe it to Mom to forgive her if you don't want to. But if you're ever tired of being angry, as I suspect you are, then you should try talking to her. Tell her how you feel."

"Great, so I should do the one thing I've been avoiding doing since I got here," you grumble.

"I suppose so." The idea didn't seem to have any merit until it came out of Rose's mouth just now. Why is that?

Rose smirks at you as if she can see your train of thought. God, you hate it when she's right. But you don't want to waste half your summer being miserable.

"I'm sure you need time alone to prepare yourself for your upcoming conversation," Rose says, and pushes herself off the bed, taking your empty plate. "Good luck."

"Thanks." Even if she didn't stand to gain some peace of mind from you and Mom making up, you know she'd be there for you, working her way into the cracks and crevices of your mind. The sister-slash-symbiotic slime mold you never knew you needed. Now, if only you could get her to confront your mother for you, or just fast forward to when it's over. Time travel powers would be hells of useful right now.

Alas, you're on your own. And it's go time.

 

Mom has her back to you when you make it downstairs. She's standing at the sink washing dishes, humming something tuneless under her breath and nodding along with an indiscernible beat. Yeah, you definitely got your musical talent from Bro.

You've spent the last five minutes steeling yourself up for what you have to say, but now that you're actually faced with your mother, you almost can't bring yourself to do it. Wouldn't it be easier to continue on as you are now, tiptoeing around your hurt feelings and pretending like your years' worth of abandonment issues aren't a thing? It's how you've always operated. You can count the number of heart-to-hearts you've had with Bro on one hand.

You're on the verge of saying 'fuck it' yet again, when the sink shuts off and Mom turns around. She looks surprised when she sees you. "Davy?"

"Sup," you say, in lieu of anything actually constructive. Your heart is beating a mile a minute, you don't want to do this, you _can't_ — And then you think back on all those nights as a kid when you'd cried for what you didn't have, and you twist that crystalline hurt into the strength you need to force the words out. "We need to talk."

A crease forms between her immaculate brows. She strips off her dishwashing gloves, brushing the powder residue off on her jeans, and you wonder if she knows what's coming. You think she probably does, by the way she glances over at the liquor cabinet. But if you don't get the option to take the edge off with a drink, neither does she. You hope your pointed look gets that across.

"Okay," she says at last, "let's talk."

She follows you over to the enormous leather sofa and the two of you sit down, she next to one armrest, and you beside the other. There's a good three feet of space between you. The distance makes you feel slightly more at ease, and so you put on your brave face (the same as all your other faces) and begin.

"Sorry I haven't been coming down for dinner." Best get that out the way first. "It was real good." Mom nods and doesn't say anything, waiting for you to continue. You inhale deeply through your nose. "I haven't been coming because—and I'm sure you know this—there's some shit between us that needs to be aired out. And the shit pile doesn't stop from getting taller."

Mom's mouth twitches, but she grows serious again immediately. "Ask me anything you want," she says with almost indiscernible hesitance. "I'll answer, I promise." Yeah, she definitely knows what's coming.

You suck in another shuddery breath and will your racing heart to slow. "Just... _why_ , Mom? I asked Bro about it, but I need to hear it from you. Why'd you leave me? Why didn't you ever come back?" The words come out far more plaintive than you would have liked, in the voice of an injured child.

She bites her lip and looks away, unwilling to keep up eye contact, but you don't give a shit if your questions make her uncomfortable. Them's the breaks.

"It's a long story, Dave."

"Psh. I got plenty of time, and thanks to Bro's contribution to my genetic makeup, I'm conveniently all ears." You thumb them for effect. "Come on. You promised me, any question."

She turns back and stares at you, as if begging you to reconsider. When you remain unmoved, she sags a bit in defeat. "...I guess I'll start at the beginning, then."

You settle back into the cushions and cross your ankles, affecting nonchalance, as if you aren't hanging on her every word.

"I was a mess back then," she begins. "I was young and dumb and drunk all the time, and riding the high of finishing my master's. Cocky as shit. I thought I had it made, and so I got reckless. I went out one night to the club where Dirk was deejaying, and– Well, you know that part of the story. I got pregnant. It wasn't too catastrophic at first, since plenty of people are able to juggle a Ph.D program and raising a kid. But I was single and living alone, and when I found out I was having twins..."

"Oh, so it's my fault then," you cut in bitterly.  "One kid is just fine, but then _bam_ , I come along and fuck everything up." On an intellectual level you know that's not what she's saying at all, but ever since you found out she kept your sister and not you, a little voice in the back of your head has been whispering to you that it's true.

"Dave!" she gasps, hurt. But you're not finished.

"Do you know how shitty it was to grow up without a mom? How much it sucked when people asked if you were dead, and I had to tell them 'no, she just didn't want me'? And then I found out it wasn't even that you didn't want a kid. I mean, you kept Rose. It was _me_ you didn't want. Do you know how fucking _worthless_ that made me feel?" Your voice is high and strained and dangerously close to cracking, and you fail to give a single fuck.

Mom lets out a little sob, and you know your point has hit home. But you don't feel triumphant like you thought you would; you just feel empty and sad. "It–it wasn't like that," she says through her tears. "My dad was dying of Alzheimer's, and my mother spent all her time taking care of him. I had no one else to help me. I would have kept you both if it were in any way possible, but I just couldn't by myself. I couldn't do it."

"So why me? Why _me?_ "

Mom scoots closer, but she doesn't dare try to touch you. Good—you don't think you could handle it at the moment. "Dave, let me be perfectly clear. I don't love your sister any more or less than I love you. Not one iota. Leaving you with Dirk was the hardest decision I've ever made in my life. And whether or not it turned out for the best, I have never regretted anything more."

"And you think that makes it all okay, huh?" you snort miserably at her. "That you can just say 'sorry' and walk back into my life, and I'm supposed to forget the last twelve years ever happened? It doesn't work that way. You don't know me—and that ain't even me trying to be some angsty dickhole tweenager. You literally _don't know me_."

"Dave..."

"I needed you to be there for me, Mom," you choke. You're crying as hard as she is now. "Instead, I went twelve years without a single word from you. My entire goddamn _life_."

"I know. God, Davy, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking _sorry_."

"So _why?_ "

She continues to hiccup for a moment, but eventually her breathing evens out and she pulls herself together enough to speak.  "I... After I left you with Dirk, I moved back to New York with Rose to finish my Ph.D. But I kept tabs on you from a distance. Just to make sure you were alright, and that Dirk wasn't going to put you in the system. When I was confident that wasn't going to happen, I decided to just... let go. It hurt too much to dwell on the fact that I'd never get to see you again."

"Bullshit," you sniff. "You could have seen me if you'd really wanted to. All it would've taken is a phone call or a letter. It was your choice not to try."

Mom scoots closer again, and this time she closes the distance between you to lay a hand on your shoulder. You let her, breathing shallowly, your still-teary eyes trained on the carpet.

"I'm a coward," she says. "I should have contacted you sooner, even if it was just to tell you that I love you and I missed you. But after what I'd done, I felt so sick and so ashamed, I could hardly live with myself. I didn't want to face it, so I gave up on ever getting you back. I was so afraid that if I found you again, you'd tell me that you hated me. I-I don't want you to hate me, Dave."

Part of you wants so badly to stay angry at her. She chose her own comfort zone over being your mother, after all. It's not even that you think you turned out screwed up being raised by Bro; even if you were broke as hell growing up, you had everything you really needed. You just feel... cheated. Like you missed out on so many wonderful experiences the kids around you got to enjoy—never mind that neither John nor Jade had mothers around growing up. Maybe it's the idea that yours was here all along, just out of reach.

And she's still here, within your reach now, trembling slightly and on the verge of tears again. You have the chance to make a connection with her, a chance that other people might kill for. And as they say, maybe it's better late than never. You're so goddamn _tired_ of being angry.

You drag your head up and look her in the eyes, this woman, your mother, who has so much care and experience etched into the lines on her face but who is still just as scared and in need of reassurance as you are. You smile at her, just a little bit. "I don't hate you, Mom," you say. "I don't think I ever could."

"Oh!" Her face crumples into emotional relief, and she surprises you by pulling you half into her lap. It's sort of awkward since you're almost as tall as she is, but you still feel comforted having her arms around you. Tentatively, you raise your arms and return the hug.

"I just want to be your mother," she pleads into your shoulder. "I can't make up for all those years before, and I know I don't deserve a second chance, but I can be your mother starting now. If you'll let me."

It would be easier to go back to dwelling on all the heartache you've felt over the years, but you push it aside and focus on the now, the warmth and the weight of your mother's presence. You let out a long, long sigh and pat her gently on the back.

"Yeah, okay, sure. Whatever."


	23. Homo Sapient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the longest chapter in this story!
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: discussion of homophobia, underage tomfoolery.

\-- December, 2008 --

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and the December after you and Dave turn thirteen features the best Christmas present you've ever received.

"Your gift's kind of unusual this year," Dirk explains, shortly after he and Dave arrive at your home for the winter break. "It's less strictly for you two, and more of a gift by proxy."

"What the hell does that mean?" Dave asks with his head cocked. "You didn't buy us charity donations or some shit, did you?"

Mom snorts out a laugh. "No, but nice try. Maybe next year. Your dad and I scraped up some change, and we bought a few plane tickets for–"

Before she can finish, the doorbell rings.

"Speak of the devil. You kids ought to go answer that."

You and Dave glance at each other, eyebrows raised in mirror image. He gets up and pulls you to your feet, and the two of you walk over to the foyer, where the person or persons waiting outside continue to ring the doorbell. Repeatedly.

"Pizza delivery guy's a little _eager_ , ain't he?" Dave mutters.

"Somehow I don't think it's pizza," you frown when you see the decidedly short shadows moving around through the frosted glass panes in the front door. You undo the deadbolt and tug the door open, and–

"Hiiiiiiiii!!"

–you're assaulted by all 85-odd pounds of Jade Harley, hurtling toward you at full speed. There's about a half second of vertigo, then you're flat on your back on the plush rug, blinking at the ceiling with the wind knocked out of you and a girl on your chest. You let out a helpless and undignified wheeze.

Standing next to you, Dave is receiving a similar (if slightly more restrained) treatment from one John Egbert, who is petting a bewildered Dave's hair and murmuring something in his ear about 'the tenderest of bro embraces'.

You force yourself to sit up a bit and look past Jade to see what must be John's father, and both cousins' grandfather, standing just beyond the doorstep. They both look faintly embarrassed. Grandpa Harley is holding the leash to an enormous, prancing, snow-white Alsatian dog with its tongue lolling out. Dear god, you hope Jaspers has enough sense to stay in your room.

"Hello," says John's father, politely tipping his fedora.

Jade finally climbs off your chest, beaming from ear to ear, and now that it's sunken in that they're actually _here_ , you grin right back, plus change.

"Hi, Jade," you say breathlessly as you clamber to your feet. "I'm so glad I finally get to meet you in person. What a surprise!"

John lets go of Dave and rolls his eyes in Jade's direction. "You have no idea how hard it was getting _some_ people to keep quiet about it."

Jade, oblivious to the jab at her expense, barrels into a still shell-shocked Dave and gives him a bruisingly tight squeeze that manages to lift him off his feet. He gasps out, "Good to see you too, Harley," and pats her back until she puts him down. You receive a friendly hug from John, and then, with all of the important introductions out of the way, you step aside so everyone can actually come in.

"Welcome, welcome!" your mother says, sidling up next to you to pull Mr. Egbert and Grandpa Harley toward the kitchen for adult conversation. "Can I get either of you a drink?" You don't miss the lingering gaze she gives John's dad. _Ugh_. As if it's not bad enough when she ogles _your_ father.

Jade takes the leash from her grandpa and the four of you (plus Becquerel) make your way into the living room, where you and Dave have Super Smash Bros. Brawl paused.

"So," Dave says, clapping his hands together and rubbing them, "who wants to play the winner?"

"You're on, penis breath!" Jade crows.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

 

The following afternoon, you, Dave, Jade and John are holed up in a snow cave of your own creation, nursing steaming mugs of hot chocolate. Jade, who has never seen more than a light frosting of snow, keeps marveling over the way the interior of the snow cave is actually growing warm with your combined body heat.

"I can even take off my gloves!" she says, doing just that, and pressing a tanned hand against the slick wall rapidly turning to ice. Her Hawaiʻian ancestry is more visually apparent than John's, as she actually gets a little sun now and then.

"I still think you're insane," your brother mutters, burrowing lower into his parka. You'd make fun of him, but the last time you tried that, he stuck his cold hands under your shirt.

"You could always just go inside, you giant walking fetus," John says. Either he's braver than you, or he's dumber; sometimes it's hard to tell which.

Dave glares at him, but lets it go. "And watch my mom hit on your dad all day? No fuckin' thank you."

John pulls a predictably horrified face, and the rest of you snicker at his discomfort, but after a moment the horror evaporates into thoughtfulness. "Speaking of which, I wanted to ask you something, Dave. It's kind of... awkward." He wriggles around, looking anywhere but at you and Dave, and twiddles his fingers.

"Uh. Shoot," Dave says, mouth quirked. You and Jade scoot in to listen with interest.

"Your dad. Is he, um. Is he gay?"

Your eyebrows fly up. There's a moment of surprised silence, and then Dave lets out a snort. "Obviously the guy makes exceptions," he says, spreading his arms to gesture at himself and you. "He's not _entirely_ gay. Ninety percent? Kinsey five, probably? Our mom's not the only woman he's ever been with, but I know he prefers dudes."

"...Oh."

"Why do you ask?" you nudge John, and he fidgets some more.

"Well... I can't be sure, because he's always wearing those dumb shades, but I think I've seen him checking out Grandpa Harley once or twice."

" _Grandpa??_ " Jade splutters, spraying hot chocolate onto your shoulder. You wince and glance back toward the house, half afraid the adults had heard her from inside. Thankfully that doesn't seem to be the case.

"Like I said," John shrugs, "he's subtle."

"It is the Strider way."

"Yeah, dude, the way of the insufferable prick."

Dave flicks back his sandy blond bangs and scowls at John peevishly. "Why don't you just ask Bro, if you wanna know so bad? Go up to him and be like, 'Golly, Mr. Strider, do you want to bang my grandpa?'"

"Uh, maybe because I don't have a death wish?" John says. "Your dad is really scary! I mean, look at his arms—they're friggin' huge! Dude could tear me in half!"

"He's really not that scary," you mutter defensively. He's _not_ scary. He's awesome, and the two are mutually exclusive forever and ever.

"Yeah, I mean, if you lifted engine blocks out of cars all day, you'd be ripped too."

Jade pokes at Dave through his parka. "What about you, Dave? Your arms are basically noodles. Hehe!"

"Yeah, Dave, _do you even lift?_ " John chimes in.

Dave's cheeks go a brilliant red under his shades. "Oh my god, you asswipes, shut up! I'm thirteen! Just give me some time to fill out, Jesus."

You shoot Dave a sly grin. The way he's been posturing around Jade this whole time is adorable.

"Anyway, if he _does_ like Grandpa, I guess that's his business," says John, back to fidgeting. "I just... I've never actually met any gay people, except in like pride parades and stuff. Nobody I've known personally. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to act around them."

You watch him closely, trying to judge by his expression whether he's disgusted, uncomfortable, or honestly just confused. It's hard to say. That makes you nervous. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dave turn his head slightly in your direction and give you a subtle but significant look, as if he can sense your discomfort. You will him to keep quiet as hard as you can, and whether it's because of your freaky twin-bond, or because he's actually displaying a modicum of tact for once, he does.

"Well, I think that's dumb," Jade pipes up. "Who cares whether somebody's gay or not? They're just people. Treat them like you do everybody else." Beat. "...Okay, so maybe not like you treat everybody else," she amends hastily. "I don't know if anyone has ever told you this, but you're kiiiiind of a jerk sometimes, John."

"Hey!"

"Dude, you've met Bro," Dave adds. "He's not some mystical prancing fairy from Buttfucktopia."

"Charming, Dave."

"He's just a guy who likes music and computers and gettin' greasy working on cars. Bangin' dudes is incidental. It ain't like you have to speak 'gay' to talk to him. And even if he was super flaming, so what?"

"Well, I guess it doesn't really matter," John says, blushing pink. He doesn't press the issue any further, just idly pats a lump of snow into something vaguely ball-shaped.

Silence.

"Sooooo, does anybody want to go tobogganing?" Jade asks enthusiastically. She's been raring to try it for the last several hours—and frankly, you can't think of a better time to go than right now. There's no such thing as too much distance from an uncomfortable topic.

To your great relief, Dave and John both jump at the suggestion, and you spend a lovely afternoon sliding down snowhills on your ass and _not talking_ about anybody's alleged sexuality.

 

You don't stop thinking about it, though. It bothers you all through dinner, and through _Con Air_ (John had wanted to watch _Face/Off_ again, but the rest of you vetoed it on the grounds that even _Con Air_ is better than that piece of crap). You don't even have the presence of mind to mock John when he gets teary-eyed during the reunion scene.

You've got to talk about your feelings with somebody, or you'll explode. Who better than your twin?

At ten o'clock, roughly an hour before bedtime, you rap lightly on Dave's door and wait. There's no response, though you think you can hear the faint rustle of cloth, and the shadows under the door are shifting. It's way too early for him and John to be going to bed. You wonder what they're doing.

"Dave?" you call, knocking again. He still doesn't answer. When you try the doorknob it's unlocked, and so you gently push the door open and step inside and–

Jade and Dave are sitting frozen on his bed, disheveled and wide-eyed, with matching kiss-bitten lips. Jade shrieks and yanks her hand out the waistband of Dave's jeans, but it's too late—the image of her copping a feel on your brother is already irrevocably burned into your retinas. Fucking hell.

"Is... this a bad time?"

"Um," is all Dave gets out, his voice cracking painfully over even just the one syllable.

Aaaaaawkwaaaaaard.

Jade jumps to her feet. "Actually, I was just leaving!" she yelps. Before Dave can protest, she snatches her jacket off the bed and tears past you into the hall, presumably to go die of mortification in her sleeping bag in your room. You wouldn't mind sinking into the floor yourself.

Dave clears his throat, and despite the fact that his face is burning scarlet, he says in an impressively level voice, "So yeah. That is a thing that just happened."

"Wait… you mean, you and Jade?" You close the door behind you and settle down into Dave's computer chair, suddenly a lot less interested in leaving. Damn your nosy and meddlesome nature.

"Uh huh. I'd only just worked up the stones to ask her out. She said yes, obviously."

"Oh, congratulations. I'm sorry I ruined the moment, Dave." And you are. "Though really, you could have locked the door."

"Coulda, shoulda, woulda. It's my bad." He flicks his hair, back to casual. "Anyway, what's up? Something you wanted to talk about?"

"I… yes." Your natural instinct is to be cagey about it, but Dave's your brother. You can trust him. You open your mouth, all prepared to lay out the facts in a logical progression, but the words get tangled up in your throat. Deep breath, try again. Nothing comes out but a mute squeak. You frown hard, confused and alarmed, and you don't understand what's happening until Dave says, "Hey, hey, it's okay."

You're shaking in your chair. You have no reason to be, but you're terrified, and your brother realized it before you did. Your inability to parse your own emotions is going to get you into trouble, someday.

"Take your time. No rush."

You swallow and look at your feet, wiggling your purple polish-lacquered toes. Why is this so hard? "I-I..." you try. "It's... _fuck_."

Come on, Rose. You can do this.

"There's this girl, Schuyler Hart, in my English class," you finally manage. Dave cants his head to the side, the way he always does when he's listening intently. "She has dark hair and gray eyes, and her skin is flawless." So far so good. "I look at her every day in class—I sit behind her, so it's hard not to. I used to think I was jealous of her, that I wanted to be her, but I'm beginning to realize that's not the case. I look at her and... I want to be _with_ her."

"Be with her how?" Dave asks.

You picture Schuyler's face, picture her smiling at you. "I want to hold her hand. I want to take her to the park, and put flowers in her hair. Read books with her. Curl up and cuddle on a chaise longue with some hot tea. Kiss her. Among other things." You've spaced out in the middle of class more than once thinking about it. "I've had nascent... _feelings_ for about a year, now, but I didn't put a label on it, because I was afraid of what it might mean."

Dave sucks his lip into his mouth, chews it for a second, releases it, and says, "So you're telling me you think you might be gay."

Though it's easier when he says the word for you, you still feel your stomach bottom out. "Yes."

"I thought so. I had a feeling that's what this was about."

"Is it... obvious?" you ask with dismay, wondering whether you'd been putting out signals unwittingly this entire time.

"Not that you're gay, but that you were confused and upset about something. 'Specially during _Con-Air_. You didn't comment on the homoeroticism inherent in prison culture even once, and it ain't like you to pass up a chance to piss on everything John loves."

"I thought I was doing a good job hiding it," you pout.

"Come on, Rose, I grew up with Bro. After learning all his tells, I could smell the _sturm und drang_ comin' off _you_ a mile away."

You regret ever lending him your Goethe compendium.

"Plus, you're my twin," he shrugs, and you think back to all the texts he'd sent you when you were having a bad day, at just the right moments to make you smile, and the pesterchats you'd been compelled by some unknowable force to send him in return.

"And there's that." Of course, even twins can have a falling out. "I mean... You don't mind, though, do you? That your sister might be gay?" you ask, and your voice quavers a bit. A small, scared, irrational voice inside your head wants to add, ' _Are you disappointed?_ '

You needn't have worried. Dave snorts, "Of course I don't mind. I ain't exactly new to the idea of having a queer family member." That's true.

"Do you think John would mind, if he knew?"

"Eh, I think he'd be okay with it." A deal of the tension drains out of your body. No one knows John better than Dave does—and if John doesn't mind, Jade definitely won't. "John's an asshole, but he's not _that_ much of an asshole. Just oblivious as hell."

"Mm, I don't know," you hum, relaxed enough now to joke, "he did catch Dad ogling Grandpa Harley."

Dave's face screws up in distaste. "Eugh, now _that_ I have a problem with."

"But can you really blame him, Dave?" you ask, batting your eyelashes. "Mr. Harley does have a sort of rugged, grizzled charm."

"The dude's like seventy-five!"

"And he doesn't look a day over sexy."

"Alright, that's it," Dave throws his hands up. "Get out of my room."

You obediently hop out of the computer chair and smooth your skirt. "Shall I send Jade back in?"

His scowl breaks into a sheepish, lopsided smile. "...Would you?" Fucking adorable.

"Gladly. But before I go..." You wring your hands, hidden half behind the doorframe. "I'm not sure I'm ready to tell anyone else about this yet. Keep it between us for now?"

"Call me Mr. Zipperlips," Dave salutes you lazily. "I got that shit locked down tighter than a nun's asshole."

"Hah. As always, you are the very essence of charm."

"You know it, sis."

Maybe everything will be okay.

 

You manage to keep your secret for a whole twelve hours, but as in the immortal words of the Bard himself, in the end the truth will out. Literally.

After breakfast the next day, all four of you (and Bec) are holed up in a bedsheet fort under the pool table, when John suggests a game of truth or dare. Jade immediately latches on to the idea, all bouncy, excited energy. You and Dave are considerably less enthused, but there's no telling Jade 'no' when she gets her heart set on something. You have no choice but to play along.

"Truth or dare?" Jade asks John for the first question. She's reclining against a pile of squashy green pillows, her hands tented in a way that makes her look decidedly villainous.

"Ummm," John chews his lip with his oversized front teeth. "Dare?"

Jade rocks back and forth and seal claps with awful glee. "Yessss!"

"Oh god, why do I get the feeling I'm going to regret this?"

"I dare you..." Jade sing-songs and pauses for dramatic effect, "to make out with Bec! With tongue!"

John's mouth drops open. "Goddammit, Jade, that's like a round five dare!"

"Still gotta do it, dude," Dave puts in helpfully, and John gives him the finger. He goes through with the dare, though, inches closer and closer to Bec until the big slobberhound licks all over his face, and then he tentatively sticks out his tongue in return.

"Plah!" he splutters, and the rest of you laugh. Ah, schadenfreude. Of course, it's his turn next, and you can bet he's not going to go easy on any of you. "Daaaave," he says, and your brother cringes almost imperceptibly. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth, I guess." Smart kid.

"...Aw, dang it, now I have to think of a question to ask. I was gonna dare you to eat pool cue chalk."

"Wow, cry me a damn river."

"Ess-tee-eff-you. So, hmm..." John purses his lips thoughtfully, and then his eyes light up. "Did you or did you not totally mack on Jade yesterday?"

Dave and Jade's mouths drop open simultaneously, and Jade does the classic anime "Ehhh?!"

"What the– Who _told_ you?" Dave asks, his cheeks and the tips of his ears going beet red.

"You did, just now!" John crows. "I had no idea, I was just suspicious about why Jade was wearing a turtleneck!"

Oh wow. You can practically see John's prankster's gambit skyrocketing, as he rolls on the floor in paroxysms of laughter. Jade rubs shyly at the side of her neck, and you wonder whether there's a hickey under her collar.

"Laugh it up, Egbert," Dave growls, his fingers twitching like he's resisting the urge to throttle him. "Truth? Or dare."

John rolls to a stop and blinks. "What? But it was just my turn!"

"That's what you get when you're an asshole."

"Fine, then," John huffs. "Dare, dickbag."

Dave's already prepared. "I dare you to go downstairs and tell your dad how much you love his cakes."

"What? No!" John protests, wide-eyed with horror. It's a well-known fact that there's nothing he hates more than his father's incessant cake-baking.

"Hey, I'm not done. You're gonna tell him how much you love his cakes, and then you're gonna ask him to bake you one. Strawberry, with white icing and candy sprinkles." Dave's favorite cake. In fact, it's the very same cake he'd powered through on his birthday earlier this month.

John lets out a barrage of swears and crawls out from under the pool table fort. He gazes back at the rest of you, resolve hardening the grimace on his face, like he's a soldier preparing to go into battle—a battle from which he knows he might not emerge. "If Cameron Poe could survive the horrors of prison and Steve Buscemi to give dear sweet Casey the bunny, then I can ask my dad for a... f-for a cake."

Sometimes you wonder if he suffered some sort of traumatic head injury as a young child.

Just as he's leaving the room, he looks back over his shoulder and says, "If I don't make it back, please tell Nic Cage that I love him."

Jade's sweet but maniacal giggles follow him out the door, as well as your own controlled laughter, and the self-satisfied smirk plastered so loudly to Dave's face it might as well be audible.

"Should we follow him?" Jade asks when he's out of sight.

" _Fuck_ yes."

"Alright," you concede, "but one does not simply walk into Mordor. We have to make sure we stay hidden, so as not to give away that the cake is a lie."

"Stealth mode; got it. Where d'you wanna hide?"

"Given that John's normal volume level is just a few decibels below _jet engine_ , we should be able to hear him from almost anywhere. Out on the landing is fine, as long as they can't see us through the railing."

You file out one by one, as quietly as you can, with Bec following you. You hug the wall until you find an appropriate vantage point, above and to the right of Mr. Egbert, who is sitting in the living room recliner with the business section of the newspaper. You, Dave, Jade and Bec all huddle down in a row, just beyond the lip of the balustrade.

As you watch, John moves to stand in front of Mr. Egbert, who obligingly folds down the top half of his paper.

"Good afternoon, John," says Mr. Egbert with a quirked eyebrow.

"Hi, Dad!" John's pasted-on smile keeps flickering to a grimace and back.

"Did you need something, son?"

"Uh, I–"

"...Yes?"

"DAD, I NEED YOU TO BAKE ME A CAKE. BECAUSE I LOVE THEM. SERIOUSLY. I WANT NOTHING MORE IN THE WORLD THAN FOR YOU TO BAKE A CAKE. FOR ME. PLEASE."

Mr. Egbert looks incredibly confused for a moment, his pipe dangling from his pursed lips, as if what he'd heard just doesn't compute. "You... want me to bake you a cake."

"THAT CERTAINLY IS WHAT I JUST SAID, HA HA."

And then Mr. Egbert's moue of confusion slowly transforms into a face-splitting smile. He stands and plants a heavy hand on John's shoulder, and John actually _flinches_ at the sheer force of his exuberance.

"Son, I never thought this day would come, and I want you to know that I am so, so _proud_ of you. Tell me about this cake you want, and I shall make it a masterpiece! My finest work, for my finest work!"

"GEE GOLLY, DAD."

Next to you, Jade makes a quiet gagging noise, and Dave whispers, "Is Mr. Egbert for real?"

Before John can come back upstairs and catch you all spying, you tiptoe back to the game room, having heard him recite, or more accurately, shout, the instructions for the aforementioned cake. You settle back into your positions, and when John comes in, you blink innocently at him as one.

John rolls his eyes. "Come on, assholes, I know you were watching that."

"Son, I am so, so _proud_ of you," Dave deadpans.

"Your time will come, dicklick." You chuckle a little, until John turns to you and says, "Rose, truth or dare?"

Drat. "Dare, I suppose."

"I dare you... to put on some of Dave's clothes and walk past the adults to see if they notice!"

"You want me to wear my twin brother's clothes and pretend to be him? Twelfth Night-style?"

"I'm curious to see if you can get away with it. For science."

Why this dare, you wonder. Why is John so eager to see you dressed as a boy? You hope he doesn't suspect...

Dave wanders off into his room and comes back a moment later with the necessary articles of clothing: a pair of his trademark black skinny jeans, black ankle socks, and a gray and red long-sleeved tee. No boxers because, as in Dave's words, "That'd be grody as fuck."

As it turns out, impersonating Dave doesn't take much effort. First you scrub off your eyeshadow and lip gloss, leaving your face fresh and bare. You shimmy out of your skirt and your sweater, depositing them in a pile on the bathroom floor. Dave's jeans fit you well, only an inch or two too long. The t-shirt's a bit tight across the chest, especially with your bra on, but when you adjust your posture into your brother's characteristic slouch, it's almost unnoticeable.

Dave's between haircuts, and you've just had one, so your hair is roughly the same length. You pull off your headband and swoop your hair to one side, and the effect is startling. You could be Dave's (identical) twin.

"Hurr, I'm Dave," you say to your reflection, in an exaggeratedly deep voice. "I love taking ironic selfies, listening to bands no one else has heard of, and hitting on Jade."

"Fuck off," Dave grouses from the other side of the bathroom door, and you hear Jade's muffled giggling.

"Yeah, come out, Rose! I wanna see this!"

"Alright then," you call back, "but you'd best prepare your anuses, because I highly doubt you're ready for this jelly." You emerge from the bathroom with a Dave-esque swagger, and watch all three of them double take.

"Oh wow, that's uncanny," says an awestruck Jade.

"Oh nooo," John gasps at her and claps his hands to his cheeks, his mouth a perfect 'o' of mock horror. "Now how will you know which one to make out with?" Jade hip checks him into the pool table. "Ow!"

"Just needs one thing." Dave plucks off his shades, blinking in the light, and then plants them on your face. "There." Everything goes darker, but you can still see in their faces just how convincing you are—even Dave's, now that he's shadesless. You're not sure how to feel about it.

"Okay, Doppel-Dave," John flashes you an irreverent salute. "Go downstairs and walk around or something, so everybody sees you."

You roll your eyes, though the motion is lost behind the shades. "Fiiiine."

Luckily for you, all the adults are in the kitchen, so you can knock this out in one fell swoop. You pad down the stairs, giggling entourage in tow, breathing in the scent of cake batter. Smells like Dave's dare has paid off. Before stepping into the kitchen, you peer around the corner and take stock of things, with the intention of timing your entrance.

Oh, fuck you up the ass; Mom's still hitting on John's dad. She's clad in her frilly pink housewife apron, and she's leaned in close against Mr. Egbert, who's pinned between her and the counter with an electric beater in hand.

"May I lick the batter from the egg beaters when you're done?" Mom coos at him. "I've always been a fan of sweets."

"But–" Mr. Egbert protests, "But, raw eggs, and–"

"I know," your mother _purrs_. "Let's just say that sometimes, I like to be naughty."

Mr. Egbert laughs awkwardly and tugs at his collar, loosening his tie. "Is it getting hot in here?"

"It's just the oven preheating, I'm sure," says your mother with a coquettish wink.

Grandpa Harley keeps chuckling to himself while he fills in his crossword, as if he thinks their antics are delightful and charming. On the other hand, Dirk rolls his eyes with his entire body, and stabs at his omelet with a bit more force than is necessary. ' _I'm right there with you, Dad_ ,' you think.

Confident that the adults are sufficiently distracted, you plod into the kitchen with Dave's heavy-footed shuffle.

"Hi, Davy," Mom says with nary a glance in your direction.

"Sup," you grunt. You hope that a monosyllable here and there won't be enough to give away your distinctly feminine vocal register. You brush past Mom and Mr. Egbert, keeping your back to your father, and yank open the fridge door. You have to rummage through some of Mr. Egbert's baking supplies, but eventually you find a box of apple juice and come away with it in hand. Totally a thing Dave would do. Now all that's left in your flawless plan of subterfuge is to make a clean getaway. Act casual, Rose. Casua– _oh fuck_. You freeze in your tracks until you realize that Dirk isn't holding out his hand to _stop_ you, he's offering you a fist bump. His eyes are still trained on Mom and Mr. Egbert at first, but he catches your hesitation, and they flick to you a split second before your brain catches up. You scramble to return the gesture. The instant your knuckles collide, screw 'casual'—you run. Dirk starts to turn towards you just as you reach the door, and he opens his mouth to say something, but you scoot away to safety before he can scrutinize your disguise any closer.

Dave is waiting right around the corner. "I'll take those," he says, plucking the shades from your face and the juice box from your hand. He shoves you into the foyer, where Jade and John are hiding, and not a moment too soon—Dirk steps out of the kitchen, his mouth set in a suspicious frown.

"Dave?" he asks when he reaches your brother.

Dave jabs the straw into the juice box and takes a long pull. "Uh, yeah?"

"Were you wearing a different shirt just now?"

Dave cocks an eyebrow. "It's been like ten seconds, so how would I have had time to change?"

"...You're right," Dirk says, "guess I'm seeing things." He looks less than convinced.

"I keep telling you you oughtta get bifocal shades, Bro. You're gettin' old."

"Fuck off," he grouses and retreats back into the kitchen.

 

"Well that was close," John says breathlessly after you've made the mad dash back to the safety of the pool table fort.

"My weebles remain unwobbled," you huff. A patent untruth, but no one needs to know that. You do feel somewhat better, however, once you're back in your own clothes. Now, hmm, who to challenge? You turn ever-so-slowly to Jade, who swallows hard when it dawns on her.

"I guess I'm the only one who hasn't gone yet, huh."

"Precisely." You tap at your chin thoughtfully as you ponder what kinds of questions or dares you could levy on her. Asking 'truth' about her and Dave is out—you don't want to know any more about what they got up to than you unfortunately already do. As far as dares go, though, you have some ideas...

"Truth or dare, Jade?"

You're counting on her sense of adventure to inform her decision, and she doesn't disappoint. "Umm… dare! Bring it on!"

"Dearest Jade," you smile evilly, "I dare you to bundle up, go out to the swingset in the back yard, and lick one of the poles. That's all."

Jade tilts her head in an uncanny imitation of Bec. "That's da kine? Why would I do that? What'll happen?"

"Oh, you sweet summer blossom."

Jade gives it up and shrugs, clambering to her feet. "Well, okay."

The rest of you get dressed in your outerwear along with her, coats and gloves and scarves and hats. John keeps ducking into his scarf to muffle his giggles as he pulls his boots on—being from a northern state himself, he knows what's up. Dave gives nothing away outright, but you're almost certain he knows, too. The corner of his mouth keeps twitching in what might almost be a smile.

You leave Bec inside, as the dog has a tendency to get overexcited in the snow, and the whole group of you tromps down to the half-buried metal swing set in the back yard.

Jade braces herself against the pole, leans in, and says with her tongue sticking out, "Like thith?"

"Like that."

She touches her tongue to the pole.

"Theh, okay, I—hey, hey wai'... Ah'm thtuck! Ow ow ow!"

John gives up the ghost and dissolves into helpless, braying guffaws. He falls down on his ass in the snow, holding his sides. "Oh my god, oh my god!"

Dave smirks and his shoulders come up, his coolkid version of a chuckle. "Come on, Jade, haven't you seen _A Christmas Story?_ "

"Wai' a mi'ute," she says as it sinks in, staring hard at Dave. "Yoo knew? An' yoo _wet me do thith?_ " She flails an arm out to hit him, but he dodges nimbly out of the way. "Rrrraaagh! Ge' me unthtuck!"

"Dave!" John yells gleefully. "Get real close and breathe on her mouth!" Judging by Jade's shocked expression and the way Dave suddenly stiffens, that's a no-go.

"Er... what about some warm water?" you suggest.

"No! Dave, _pee_ on her mouth!"

Dave's jaw drops. "Egbert, what the _fuck?_ "

"Ah heht aww a yoo!" Jade shrieks, sweeping her arm in your general directions. "Tho muth!"

Just then, the back door swings open and Mom stomps out, holding a mug of steaming liquid. All of you shrink back as she approaches. "Oh, for fuck's sake," she groans, "I could hear Jade screeching from all the way inside." She pours out the water on Jade's exposed tongue, and Jade instantly comes free, stepping back and sheepishly sucking her abused tongue into her mouth. "Always bring the warm water _with_ you. I don't expect Dave or poor Jade to know any better, but Rose, you of all people should have remembered that, after the incident with the statue at the skating pond."

"Mom!" you hiss, horrified. "Is bringing that up _really_ necessary?"

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"Yo Mom, can I hear the rest of this story?" your stupid brother butts in.

"Later, sweetie." That's it; you officially hate everything. "Now, you diaper-butts had better stay out of trouble, or I'll start singing Christmas carols."

"Oh god, please, anything but that," you groan. There's nothing worse than Mom's singing. How she manages to be competent at the violin while also being completely tone deaf is beyond you.

Mom, naturally, takes your complaint as her cue to start singing. "We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas–"

"AND A HAPPY HANUKKAH!" Dirk bellows from somewhere inside. At least he's on key.

When Mom is gone, Jade gives you all one last withering glare, then turns up her nose and flounces back inside. The rest of you agree that after the way the last round had gone, maybe you should call it quits in another round or two.

Of course, there's no way Jade's going easy on any of you. "Alright, jerky-jerk asshole boyfriend," she says imperiously, once you're all reassembled. "Truth or dare?"

Dave wilts into his pillow—in the doghouse on the very first day of dating. "Truth, I guess." (You wouldn't have wanted to risk doing a Jade-dare either.)

"Fine. Hmmmalalalalathhhbbpppp." She goes cross-eyed and wiggles her toes. "Got it!"

"Yeah?" Dave tilts his head.

"Are you hard of hearing?"

"What?"

"Are you hard of–" Jade repeats, but then Dave's poker face slips and she catches on, too late. "Arrgh!"

"Okay, for real," Dave says quickly, to placate her. "A little bit. Why?"

"I was just wondering why you always tilt your head to listen to people. When I was helping out at the vet's office this summer, we had a cat that was deaf in one ear that would do the same thing."

"So now you're comparing me to an animal?" he smirks.

"Daaaave!"

"Alright, alright. I had a pretty nasty ear infection when I was little. Busted my eardrum and had to have surgery and shit. My hearing never quite came back all the way." He thumbs at his right ear.

"Woah, really?" says John. "Like, how bad is it?"

"Not that bad. I only have about twenty percent loss, which is just enough to fuzz out on the details sometimes. My left ear's my dominant ear, now, thus... head tilt."

"You never got a hearing aid?" you ask.

Though he hadn't betrayed the slightest hint of self-consciousness while telling his story, he looks away now, as if ashamed. "Twenty percent hearing loss is borderline. They told us it was 'recommended', but our insurance would only pay for it if I had twenty-five percent loss or more. We couldn't afford it. So I just... got used to it. No point in changing things this late in the game."

"I see," you say carefully, and you wonder if Mom understands just how far and how deep the consequences of her abandoning Dave reach. You love your mother, but just, _fuck her_ sometimes.

"It's whatever," Dave shrugs. As if that makes it any better. "Anyway, two more rounds, then I'm out. I got a fuckin' cake to eat. So... John, truth or dare?"

"Oh, screw you, dude," John groans. "...Dare."

Dave _grins_ , and it's a little terrifying. "Would you like to have a piece of my cake when it's ready?"

Oh snap. You can practically hear the gauntlet clang as it hits the floor.

John's face screws up in an angry pout. "You are the worst friend, Dave! The worst!"

"Yeah, I know."

"Rose, truth or dare!"

Again? This seems to be following a pattern. "Dare," you say hesitantly. After the last dare he'd handed you, you're still illogically afraid John might be onto you.

"Hmm, okaaaaay," he murmurs. "Since you make such a good Dave imposter, I dare you... to kiss Jade!"

Oh fuck, he knows. He _knows_ , but _how?_ Did Dave tell him? You glance at your brother, but his expression reads troubled and angry, not guilty. Panicked, you look to Jade. Her eyes are wide with mild surprise, but there's something else in her expression you can't quite place. Thoughtfulness? Realization?

"Maybe this dare ain't such a good idea," Dave warns John, carefully blank. Good brother. Best friend. "Think of something else."

John, with all the tact and subtlety of a herd of stampeding water buffalo, says, "Come on, dude, why? Are you jealous? It's not like Rose is _gay_ or anything."

 _Oh_. You freeze in place, trying desperately to hang onto your appearance of control, but already you feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Your normally metronomic pulse skyrockets as fear takes you in its iron grip. They're all staring at you, and you can see the pity in Dave's expression even behind the shades, and the dawning shock in Jade's, and you just can't _do this_ –

There's the first tear, and the second, and you finally convince your legs to move, to lift you from a sitting position. You gain your feet, and, without so much as a backwards glance, you run from the room.

"Rose, wait, where are you going?" John calls after you. "Come ba— _ow_ , Dave, what was _that_ for?"

 

There's only one person you feel comfortable talking to right now. You find him in the library, leaning against a bookshelf with a sci-fi paperback in hand.

"Dad?" you whimper.

His head jerks up, and when he sees you, he sucks in a breath and tosses his book aside.

"Oh shit, Rose, no," he says, and you dart toward him. He's _safe_ , and better, you know he'd do absolutely anything to protect you. It's a little awkward at first, like, maybe he's not quite sure what to do with a crying teenage girl, but then he shakes it off, takes that last step toward you and pulls you into a hug.

The instant his arms come up around you, the last vestige of your control falls away. You sob into his T-shirt, leaving enormous tear and snot stains in the fabric, but he doesn't seem to mind. "Hey, hey, it's okay," he says, rubbing your back comfortingly. "I got you." You pour out your fear and your heartache and despair until you're drained, and your breathing slows enough that you can find it within you to speak.

"Thank you," you croak, embarrassingly nasal and throaty. "I needed that."

Dirk gives you a squeeze and then moves you away by the shoulders to look at you. "What happened, huh?" he asks. "Did somebody hurt you? Was it your brother?"

"No, no, Dave stood up for me. It was John, but... he didn't mean it." At least, you hope not. If he did, well. Guess you'll be short a friend.

"I see," Dirk says too evenly, his expression darkening into something hard and cold. "Do I need to have a talk with John's dad?"

Maybe John wasn't wrong about him being scary—right now, he looks faintly murderous. Better defuse him fast.

"No, it's okay, really," you force a weak, watery smile. "He didn't understand what he was doing."

Dirk flexes his fingers into fists, like he's still debating having a very strong 'word' with somebody. "What exactly did he do? It can't have been 'okay' if it made you this upset."

For the second time in as many days, you prepare to come out. Having done it once already doesn't make it any easier. Here goes. "W-we were playing truth or dare, and he dared me to kiss Jade. But I-I just couldn't. I froze up. Dave tried to get John to pick another dare, and then John said, 'Come on, it's not like Rose is gay,' but that's the thing. I think... I think maybe I _am_."

Your eyes blur with tears again, making it hard to gauge your father's reaction, but you can tell that he's surprised. Surprised, but not very. You wonder if he saw this coming.

"Oh, sweetheart," he says, thumbing a tear from your cheek. "Is that what's got you so upset?" You nod, and he hugs you close again.

"I just... I'm really confused," you sniff. "I'm afraid of what people will think of me, and what'll happen if my friends stop being my friends. I figured you were the only one who would understand."

"I do understand," he says softly, and there's a rough little hitch in his voice, like an old scar. "I do."

"You're not disappointed?"

"No, not at all, and don't you ever think that. I'm honored you trusted me enough to tell me."

You feel the raw edges of your anxiety begin to slowly bleed away, but you can't relax yet. "Do you think Mom will be upset? I can't imagine this was part of her 'plan'." You could always leave and stay with Dirk and Dave, although it would break your heart if it ever came to that.

"I highly, highly doubt that," Dirk says, and while it isn't a yes or no, he sounds confident enough that you believe him. "The only thing your mom and I have ever really wanted for you is for you to be happy. Who you're attracted to makes no difference to me, as long as they treat you right."

"That's… really good to know." At the very least, your family is on your side. "But then again, I'm only thirteen. I've never even kissed someone! What happens if, later down the line, I find out this was just a phase and I'm really attracted to boys? Would I be the 'girl who cried lesbian'?"

Dirk snorts, but quickly smoothes his expression back into something more solemn. "Well, take me for example. I prefer men by a pretty wide margin, and I've only ever dated men, so for expediency's sake I call myself gay. Still, there've been times I've been with a woman and enjoyed it. You and your brother's existence being a case in point."

You make a face. You don't particularly want to think about your parents doing _that_.

"Anyway," he continues, "the only person who has any business labeling your sexuality is you. And nobody has the right to judge you on it."

That's a nice sentiment, but you're not sure how realistic it is. Your peers are nothing if not judgmental, whether or not they have the right—especially at the elite magnet school you attend, where reputation is second in importance only to your GPA (and followed closely by your 'pedigree').

"But what if people _do_ judge me?" you ask.

Dirk shepherds you by the shoulders to the window seat and sits down beside you. "I can't lie, Rose," he says gently, "the world isn't a perfect place. There will be people who'll give you shit for it. Sometimes, it might even be someone you care about."

"So what do I do?"

"You can't change how people feel, so don't make yourself miserable trying. What you _can_ change is how they get to act around you. It's like housetraining a puppy not to shit on the rugs. You just have to use the right... incentive."

"Incentive?"

"The equivalent of rubbing their noses in the shit pile. People piss you off? You give 'em the _look_. Like this."

He tilts his shades down and skewers you with a flat, unimpressed stare, as if to say, ' _Really?_ ' It makes you want to cringe, and it's not even truly directed at you. Granted, he's a full-grown man, and your father besides, while you're a scrawny young girl.

"It can't hurt that you're a very tall male with an intimidating physique," you point out.

"I guess," Dirk shrugs, "but don't sell yourself short, Rose. You're a badass kid, and trust me, dry sarcasm is in your genes." Fair point. "I don't foresee you having a lot of problems getting people to back off. Now, c'mon, show me your stare."

Feeling silly, you scoot back and tilt your chin down, keeping your eyes locked on Dirk and your mouth in a flat line. For added effect, you slowly raise one eyebrow—just like you've seen Dirk do at your brother about a hundred times.

" _Damn_. See? Even I wouldn't mess with you."

"Really?"

"Yup," he grins. "So, next time John starts edging into dangerous territory, you give him that look. See how long it takes him to learn to treat you right."

"I will."

"Now, is there anything I can do for you, to help?" Dirk asks, smoothing his hand down the back of your hair.

You smile. "You've already done it." The weight on your shoulders feels a thousand times lighter. You knew you could count on him to understand, and make everything just that little bit better. "Thanks, Dad. I appreciate you talking me through this."

"Always, Sweetness," he says, and he kisses the crown of your head. Then he leans back and muses, "I wonder if I'll need to have this talk with your brother."

"The non-hetero sexuality talk?" you snort. "Oh no, he's straight. _Definitely_ straight."

" _Oh?_ "

Crap—you didn't mean to rat Dave out. "...No comment."

"Uh huh." Dirk pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts tapping away, his mouth twisted in wry amusement. It buzzes in reply a moment later, and you hear Dave's plodding footsteps coming down the hall.

"He has no idea what he's in for does he?"

Dirk grins. "Not a damn clue."

 

You step out the door just as Dave rounds the corner.

"Rose," he says when he sees you, shoulders hunched with guilt. "I'm really sorry about what happened. John just... He doesn't realize–"

"It's okay, Dave. I'll be okay." You knock shoulders with him as you pass, and he instantly reverts to a casual slouch.

"Oh. Cool."

"And Dave? Good luck."

"Thank y—wait, what?" he spins around to face you, but then Dirk sticks an arm out and hauls him into the room by his collar. "Hrk!"

The door shuts behind them. You linger for just a moment nonetheless, your ear pressed to the wood, straining to hear.

Dirk clears his throat. "So... Safe sex."

" _What?_ Oh god, is this The Talk?"

"Maybe. So, what do you know about safe sex?"

"A classic example of 'do as I say and not as I do', right?"

"Shut up, smartass."

You muffle a giggle behind your hand and return to your blessedly empty room, so you can recharge. You still have to speak with John, at some point. You take a quick, thirty minute shower, and redo your makeup. Now at least you look the part.

 

An hour later, a knock on the door startles you out of your reading. You set the book on your nightstand and sit up, hoping somewhat guiltily that it's Dave or Jade.

"Rose? It's me, John. Can I come in?"

Drat. "I'd rather you didn't." You're not ready to be face-to-face with him yet.

"Oh. Well... would it be alright if I talked to you through the door?"

"Yes, I suppose."

You hear his back brush against the wood as he sits down. "So, I hope you don't get mad at him, but Dave told me. About you liking girls, and all. And then after _he_ got done informing me what a jackass I am, Jade started up! She was really mad at me too, by the way. She hit me and everything! So, at least you know they both care about you and have your back when it counts. Even if it's against me."

You slowly sit down on the other side of the door. "I guess that's good to know."

"Anyway, I'm the horse's ass. It's me," he says, and his head thunks back against the wood. "I feel so bad, Rose. I never would have said all that stuff if I'd known it would make you upset. You're one of my best friends, and that's not gonna change, no matter whether you're gay or straight, or even if you decide you want to marry one of your Fluthlu posters."

Somehow or other, that manages to be a relief. "I won't, by the way."

"I figured," he laughs. "But the point still stands. I'm really, really sorry, and I'll try my absolute best not to be such a jerk in the future. And if I ever am... oh crap, I get the feeling I'm going to regret this... you have my permission to punch me in the nuts as hard as you can."

"Hmm," you murmur, beginning to smile despite yourself. "How many times?"

"Once per offense, geez! Don't push your luck."

"So you still want to be my friend?" you ask uncertainly. "You don't... think it's weird?"

"Of course I want to be your friend!" he says, and you slump down lower against your side of the door with relief. "I mean, I won't lie, I still think it'll take some time for me to get used to the idea of you being gay, just 'cause I'm a little dense sometimes and I grew up so friggin' sheltered. But you're hella worth it, Rose, and I promise this doesn't change our friendship. If you still want to be friends with _me_ , that is."

You open your door slowly and John turns and climbs to his feet, his big blue eyes hopeful behind the thick lenses of his glasses. You give him a smile.

"John... would you like to join me in righteously pranking my brother? I'm not angry with him, but he _did_ break a promise, and I have it on good authority that you're quite talented at trolling the hell out of people."

"Um, yes?" he grins impishly.

"Did you have something in mind?"

"Actually, I've been meaning to try this prank involving apple juice..."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this marks the end of Act 2! Act 3, coming right up.


	24. Presque Vu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here begins Act 3. The final stretch!
> 
> Individual warning for this chapter: canonical character death, mention of major character death.

\-- April, 2009 --

Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and when you wake up the morning of the fourteenth, it's like your eyes are open for the very first time. You remember. Oh god, you _remember_. You claw your way frantically out of bed, struggle into your robe, and tear across the house to Rose’s room.

"Rose!" you gasp, your head swimming with visions of the ectobiology lab, and if Sburb never happened, how can she _exist_ –

But she's there in her bed, just as real as she’s always been in this timeline. The instant you see her, you're struck with a vision of Rose as your other selves remember. A scared but resourceful little girl, grown into a clever and powerful young woman in the blink of an eye. You can still see the gauzy orange flow of her god tier robes, the exact shade of her father's eyes.

In this timeline, she's just a young girl, though still quite clever, wearing regular pajamas and tucked in bed with Jaspers asleep on her chest. Exactly how you left her last night.

You glance at your reflection in the vanity mirror. You're scarily pale and stricken, like you've just seen a ghost. In a way, you guess you have.

Rose is a light sleeper, and she awakens soon after you step into her room, though she's groggy as all getout when she sits up. "Mmn. Mom?" she groans, rubbing at her eyes as Jaspers (Frigglish!) pads off under the bed. "What are you doing in here at..." a quick glance at her clock, "seven in the morning?"

Think fast. "I, um. I'm here to wake you up for school, sweetie."

She stares hard at you. "Mom. It's Easter vacation."

Real smooth, Roxy. "O-oh. Right. Of course it is, I just forgot."

Rose narrows her eyes, scrutinizing you more closely, and then her brow creases with worry. "Are you alright?"

You consider lying to her, but that’s never, ever worked. Instead, you cross the room and sink down onto the corner of her bed. "Rosie," you say, searching her, "what did we do yesterday?" You inject as much significance into each syllable as you can.

After a moment she snorts and says, "Funny, you didn't  _look_ wasted." Whatever you were hoping she'd say, that’s not it. "We went to the park," she continues. "Fed the turtles. Filched some hidden Easter eggs the little kids had missed. Then we came home, and I got on Pesterchum video chat with Dave and Jade to wish John a happy birthday."

She doesn't remember the Game. For her, there is only this timeline, and you don't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. You don't want to be alone in this. But maybe you aren't. Maybe if your daughter doesn't remember, but you do, it means–

Across the house, the phone in your bedroom rings, and you don't have to see the caller ID to know it's Dirk.

"I have to go get that," you say hastily. The bed creaks as you stand.

"Wait!" Rose calls after you before you can leave. When you turn back to her, she still has that look of concern on her face. "You never told me what's wrong."

You force a smile to your lips and hope it fools her just this once. "Nothing, sweetie. Just a nightmare."

 

"Rox," Dirk gasps when you pick up the phone. He's never called you anything so familiar in this universe before.

"I know, Di-Stri," you sob. Tears of relief are springing to your eyes just from hearing his voice. "Three timelines. I feel like I've got the worst hangover headache of my life."

"Rose is fine?" he asks.

"Yeah, she's all here, fingers and toes and everything."

"Good, thank god. So's Dave. But..."

"He doesn't remember?"

"No. Rose doesn't either?"

"Nope."

"Shit. Okay." Dirk breathes into the receiver for a while, trying for steady, but he sounds shaky at best. "So this universe is exactly as we remember it being up until now. No Game, our kids were born the old-fashioned way, John and Jade are cousins instead of siblings, et cetera. The only difference to this timeline is that we remember the Game now. But the kids don't. So, who else besides us does?"

"Probably Egbert," you say, thinking back to that night a few months ago when you’d all stargazed and had that strange mutual moment where you’d almost remembered. And Harley— _Jake_. But-"

"Oh god," Dirk croaks, realizing at the same time you do. "Jane... Jane is dead."

The whole world tilts sideways, and you have to hang onto your headboard to keep from sliding right off it. Janey's dead. Gone. And forever, too, because in this world, there's no god tier powers to save her. She's not a hero of life; she's ashes, a centerpiece on the Egbert mantel.

Something inside you cracks, comes rattling from your gut and up your esophagus and culminates in a low, almost inhuman moan. "Ohhh. Oh god, f-fuck, _Janey!_ " you sob. Knowing Rose, she’s probably trying to listen in, and you don't want to scare her, but there's simply no way for you to have a quiet breakdown. "I never spoke to her, or-or got to tell her she was my best friend... I never even got to give her a hug!"

"Shh, Rox, it's alright," Dirk says, and swallows, and you can tell he's crying too. "It’s not your fault. Jane wouldn't have known us anyway. She died years ago, so she never remembered the Game. We would have been strangers to her."

"And you think that's supposed to make me feel better?" You want to be angry, and Dirk is the only person you have to take it out on. "She's gone, a-and we can't ever see her again. Do you _get_ that?"

"Of course I do," he says gently. He's not rising to your bait, indulging you instead, and that somehow just makes you angrier. You want to hit something, want to smash every last liquor bottle in your cabinet. But that won't bring Jane back. Nothing will.

"Remember," he continues, "she was married to Jake in this timeline. We should... we should call him."

"Why, so you can make another pass at him, now that Janey's out of the way? Try not to fuck it up this time," you snap.

He sucks in a breath like he's been punched, and you know you've hit him where it hurts. Oh god, you're an _asshole_.

"Dirk?" you say, small. "I'm sorry. What I said just now... I didn't mean it, you know that."

"It's okay," Dirk sighs, "I know you didn't, and I get it. It's hard to keep your head when a third of you still wants to treat me like a stranger. Just... can Dave and I come up and stay for the rest of the week? I know it's short notice, but I want to see you and Rose. We can talk about this in person if you—"

"I'd like that," you blurt. You jump up, casting about for your laptop. "I'll get you tickets for the next flight you can reasonably make, okay? No arguments; just start a-packin'."

He hates it when you spend money on him, but he knows better than to fight you on it today. "Just this once," he agrees reluctantly.

"Good. I'll see you soon."

 

The very same afternoon, there's a knock at the door, and when you open it, Dirk and Dave are on your doorstep. You launch yourself at Dirk before they have the chance to cross the threshold. Dave and Rose are both taken aback. They've only ever seen you and Dirk treat each other as acquaintances at best, as people who happen to be parents of the same kids, and never as friends—but that's what the two of you are. Old friends. Old soldiers. Dirk lifts you off the ground and squeezes you hard enough to leave you gasping, and in return, you feather kisses all along his jaw and over his cheeks and nose.

" _Gross_ ," Dave mutters, snapping both of you out of it. Dirk sets you down gently, and you invite the two of them in, pink-faced. Dave gives you a brief hug, Dirk scoops up Rose for their own quick squeeze, and then the kids wander off, presumably so they can spend the evening dissecting Dirk's and your reactions to seeing each other. They will never in a million years guess the truth.

Dirk hasn't eaten since breakfast, so first things first, you feed him. Nothing like a little soul food for when you discover you've had multiple lives—two of which included a video game apocalypse. (You think about mixing a martini for your own 'soul food', but you decide teenage Roxy didn't do all that work getting sober for nothing.) Dirk sits hunched on a barstool, indelicately slurping chicken soup while you watch him with a fond eye. He's taller and far more filled out than the rangy teenage Dirk from the Game, and yet he has the same mannerisms, the same speech patterns, and the same slight awkwardness that has always endeared him to you. Other facets of his personality are different, or smoothed in some way. Being a father has tamed many of his neuroses, as motherhood has some of yours. Raising Dave in this universe gave him an outlet for his anxiety, and helped ease the loneliness and depression that had nearly crushed him as a teen. You're looking at the very best of Dirk Strider. The very best of all of you.

"That was surprisingly good," he says when he's finished with his soup. You could choose to be offended by the seemingly backhanded compliment, but you know it's Dirk-ese for a genuine one.

"Yeah, well, when you have more than just pumpkins to eat, you'd be amazed what you can do."

He looks up at you over his shades and goes tense, and it's hit him again, you can tell. It's been happening to you, too. For a half second you'll forget about your other lives. Then something will remind you, and your stomach will drop all over again. After that, you start thinking about Jake, approaching the end of his life, and Jane, long since passed away, and the despair and helplessness come flooding back.

A line appears between Dirk's brows—he's been following the same thought process you have.

"Have you talked to Jake?" you ask him gently.

He shakes his head. "I tried calling, but Jade answered the phone and said he wasn't feeling well. Asked me to call back later."

"You should." You place a hand on his shoulder and he leans into your touch. "By the way, I'm real sorry about what I said earlier. Are you still mad at me?"

"A little," he replies. Ouch. But hey, at least he's being honest. You would much prefer a candid expression of anger to the passive-aggressive sniping both he and his daughter are prone to. "I'll get over it, though."

You think about Jake, and what it must have been like for him to awaken with his teenage memories thrust without warning into an old man's body. What it was like to discover that Jane was already dead. It's almost enough to make you say 'screw sobriety' and drink yourself stupid after all.

"This is so fucked up," you say, sinking down onto the barstool next to Dirk.

Dirk wraps a warm, heavy arm around your shoulders and pulls you close. "I know."

"What do we do?"

He takes his shades off with his free hand to rub at his eyes. You remember him at sixteen quite vividly, and while he's still youthful for his age, it surprises you how tired he looks. There are three lifetimes within those golden-orange depths.

"I have no idea," he says quietly. His poker face is in place, but he's emitting waves of upset so intense they're almost palpable. He's never been quite as emotionally opaque as he thinks he is.

"Di-Stri, what's bothering you?"

"What we are," he explains. "What we could've been. It's hard to reconcile the me of this universe with the one who ran a puppet porn empire and beat the shit out of Dave every day strifing. Hell, it's even hard to reconcile with the me who played the Game, and tried to manipulate Jake into the fighter I thought he needed to be. Shit... who I _wanted_ him to be."

"You only did what you thought you had to do," you point out, sitting up straighter beside him. "We all did. If we hadn't, we might have lost the Game. We wouldn't be here at all."

Dirk lets out a long sigh. "That's no excuse; not in my case. Sure, the circumstances were different, and the variables were all switched around, but I was still playing the Machiavellian puppetmaster and enjoying every minute of it. And the worst part is that every single thing I did was something the me of this universe is just as capable of doing." He drops his head down onto the table and covers it with his arms, and his voice comes out muffled. "I turned our son into an emotionally maladjusted wreck who was convinced the only thing he was good for was sacrificing himself," he says. "I can't ever forgive myself for that."

You pull one of Dirk's arms away and lace your fingers with his long, callused ones, examining the semi-permanent grease stains under his nails. "I think you're being way too hard on yourself," you tell him.

He peers at you doubtfully from under the shadow of his other arm. "How do you figure?"

"Well, first off, let's not forget that the Green Sun suicide mission was Rose's thing. Plus, teenage you was more of an emotionally maladjusted wreck than Dave ever was."

"...Thanks."

"Come on, we all were. Don't you remember Trickster Mode?"

He groans in dismay. "Don't fuckin' remind me."

"At least you didn't embarrass the shit out of yourself like the rest of us did. Any dirty laundry I hadn't already aired out with you over Pesterchum got dumped on your head. In public."

"Uh huh," he says, starting to emerge from under his arm, amusement dancing in his eyes. "As I recall, your exact words were 'Less get married and have some bobies'."

"Oh christ," you mutter, thinking back. Of your group, you were always the shameless one, so you can hardly imagine what it was like for the others, who'd had at least a modicum of dignity to their names before the Trickster debacle. Poor, poor Jane. "But hey," you smile, "at least part of that wish came true."

"We did indeed have a couple of bobies."

"Which brings me to my second point." You unlace your fingers from his, and put your hand on his shoulder. "You said something to me once, back before the Game, when we were teenagers. You said our kids would be raised by 'people who've clearly got no business bringin' up anybody'. But that's not true, Dirk."

He looks at you questioningly. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you've already proved yourself wrong. This universe is our chance to do things right. Like, nobody's immune from a fuckup every now and then, but you're still a good parent." Sometimes when he thinks you're not looking, you catch him watching the kids with this heartbreakingly fond expression, and it makes your insides warm. "Dave is a great kid, and Rose loves you to death. I wouldn't have picked anybody else to be my scandalous underaged babydaddy."

Dirk smiles, big and toothy and genuine. It crinkles his eyes at the corners to show laugh lines you never knew were there, and—holy hell, those are _dimples_. "For what it's worth," he says, "sleeping with you was the best poor decision I ever made."

"Wow, thanks."

"And I'm glad you got your wish. Not just because I love our kids, but because... after all you went through in the Game, and all you did for me, nobody deserves to be happy more than you do."

You grin back at him and bump his shoulder with yours. "Palemates forevs?" you ask him.

"Palemates forevs."

Just then, the twins come tromping down the stairs, Dave in the lead. "Yo, yo, Ma," he says when he reaches you. "I don't wanna cast aspersions on your parenting skills or whatever, but it's been like three whole hours since I've eaten. When are you gonna feed me?"

"I could also use a snack," Rose agrees.

You shake your head to get rid of your emotional leakage before they notice anything's amiss. "God, _fine_ ," you whine, in a pretty convincing facsimile of your normal self. "Go play video games or something, and I'll bake a pizza." You shoo them out of the kitchen and into the living room, and then you motion for Dirk to go with them. You love him, but you need a minute alone to get your head straight. Dirk gives you a little nod and follows the twins out to challenge them to Mario Kart.

Five minutes later, he's sitting sandwiched between the two kids, screaming at Princess Peach to get unstuck from the wall she's glitched into; Dave, as Bowser, is gritting his teeth in second place, and Rose, smugly smirking, is coasting across the finish line in first place as Yoshi. That's your girl.

God, you love them all so, so much. You would do anything for any one of them—even die. And you did, once or twice. It eases the terrible burden in your heart just to think about them and the fact that they're yours to keep this time.

After the pizza is baked and distributed, you shove Dirk and Dave aside, cramming yourself in the resulting space. "Move over, boys. Let mama show you how it's done." The most recent system you'd laid hands on in this timeline was an SNES, but teenage you remembers the precise tilt sensitivity of a Wii controller, so you blow everyone's mind by consistently coming in first place.

"Is _this_ what you stay up doing when I'm asleep?" Rose asks at one point, after you've routed her for the third race in a row.

Dave pouts. "What kind of mom blue-shells her own damn kid?"

"The kind that wins races, Davy!"

It's strange having the whole family in one place and spending time together like this. To teenage you, it's strange even having a family. Being a parent. You don't know how you're supposed to feel about it, because there's no road map for this prime uncharted territory, but you think it's kind of nice. Almost... normal. Whatever _that_ means. Dirk shoots you a crooked smile over the kids' heads, and you know he's thinking the same thing you are. Maybe this is what you're meant to do now. Just be, and enjoy this second (or third) chance you've been given. Raise your children without the threat of the Game looming over you. Love each other in whatever ways you're able. You think that's something you could do.

And then the phone rings again, and the tenuous sense of peace you'd been reaching for snaps like a dry twig.

In your heart, you know who it is even before you see the caller ID, but it still knocks the breath out of you. "Dirk. It's Jake."

He drops his controller, and the kids stare as he vaults over the back of the couch to reach you. "I want to talk to him too."

"Here," you say, passing him the handset without answering the call. "Let's go to my room and get some privacy. I have another phone there, so we can both talk."

He nods grimly. His free hand is clenched into a fist, knuckles gone white. "Just keep playing without us," he directs the kids. They watch him with troubled frowns, and Rose looks especially suspicious, but they eventually unpause the game and leave your characters where their go karts have stopped. You and Dirk are up the stairs and in your bedroom before the answering machine picks up.

"Hello?" you say on the very last ring.

There's the harsh crackle of static that comes with a long distance call relayed by radio, and then Harley—no, _Jake_ —says, "Hello."

Dirk's legs go out, and he collapses onto the edge of your bed. "Hey, bro," he breathes. There's a slight delay between his words in the room with you versus over the phone, like an echo.

"You're there too, old chap?" comes Jake's voice, faint and quiet and so much older than the teenage you remembers. "That would explain why there was no answer at your apartment."

"Yeah, sorry. I'm here with Rox and the kids. We had to see each other, after..."

"Good idea, to be with people you love." Jake goes quiet, and for a moment, there's nothing but the crackle and hum of the line.

You hate it. You hate the silence. It's why you've spent so much of your three lives chattering, or drinking, filling in the uncomfortable spaces others leave behind.

"Come on, Jakey," you urge him, "talk to us. How are you? Are you okay?"

"What do you think."

You and Dirk glance at each other in shock. Jake, whether Jake English or Jacob Harley, just doesn't _do_ bitter. But now his words are knives and acid, cold and biting.

"I'm an old man," he continues. "This is my reward for beating the Game, eh? Some _prize_. I'm old and tired, and Jane is dead, and Jade doesn't realize anything is missing. She doesn't... she doesn't realize I've lost everything."

"That's not true," says Dirk. "We're still here, and we love you. Remember, you and me, on LOTAK? The good times we had, before...?"

"Tch," Jake dismisses him. "That was a lifetime ago."

"Come on, you're still the same man y–"

"Do you take me for a fucking idiot, Strider? I'm not the man I was before. I'm no longer the shortsighted, naive, _stupid_ little gadabout who was convinced that everything would turn out dandy, if only we _wished_ hard enough. Not anymore."

"Jake, please," Dirk tries, rubbing at his eyes behind his shades, "don't shut us out like this. Now that Jane's gone, we're all our Sburb selves have left." The corners of his mouth are turned down hard; he's fighting a losing battle and he knows it.

"He's right, we need you!" you add. "You're the Page of Hope, Jake. Don't give up now!"

Jake goes quiet again, but you know better than to think he's considering your request.

"There is no hope," he says at length, and your heart sinks. The grief in his voice is like a cancer, like a sucking wound, and you know that even with all your willpower brought to muster, you could never drag him out of it. "I think it's best to try and forget the Game ever happened. Fuck knows I'm old enough to have an excuse if I do."

"Jake, no!"

"To quote an old favorite film of mine, the only winning move is not to play. I'll live out the rest of my life as if this morning never happened. It was a bad dream. No Game, no dying, no... no childhood friends. Just me and Jade and Becquerel here together, the way it's always been."

"Please!" you sob, your eyes going blurry with tears.

"You have each other to care for. You don't need me anymore." Dirk is still entreating him desperately not to hang up, but you know that Jake is deaf to his words. He's made up his mind. "This is what I want, chums. Please, let me go."

"But I can't!"

"Cheerio."

"No, wait!" Dirk tries one last time, "Jake, I _love_ –"

He's cut off by a dial tone before he can finish. There's a moment of stunned silence, as fragile as spun glass, and then his fingers go slack and the phone drops to the floor. It's over.

As hard as it was to learn of Jane's death, this is worse. This _stings_. Losing Janey was unfair, but there was no one to blame and no one to argue with. No chance of getting her back. Jake, on the other hand, is alive. He's alive, and he's here in the same year as you for once, and he _chose_ to give up your friendship. He's thrown you both away.

Dirk turns away from you and rips his shades off, burying his face in his hands. He's trying to keep his composure but his shoulders are quaking, his breath coming out in shuddering gasps between gulps for air. He doesn't fight you off when you wrap your arms around him. The two of you cling to each other for what feels like hours, letting the hurt and the misery and the loneliness flow out of you until you have nothing left to cry.

Night falls, leaving the room in darkness. Neither of you makes any move to turn on the light. At some point Rose knocks on your door to ask if you're alright, but you don't answer, and she and Dave go to bed on their own. It's just you and Dirk in the dark, holding each other together. Breathing. Being.

Eventually you coax him under the covers with you. You spend much of the next hour petting and shooshing one another to keep the tears at bay.

Good moirail. Best friend.

Both of you reach a state of zen-like numbness around midnight, and you separate without comment, each to your own pillow. The silence feels wrong, considering the day's events, but it's nonetheless welcome. It provides a sense of stillness, lulling you into a state of calm reflection. You're okay. Everything's going to be okay. That doesn't mean you're able to sleep. Instead, you turn your eyes up to the wide skylight above your bed and stargaze.

Out here in the middle of the forest, with no light pollution to spoil the view, the night sky is incredible. On clear nights, the moon and the stars are bright enough to read by. Sometimes you go upstairs to the observatory with a blanket and pillow, open the dome, and spend the night on the floor just looking up, drowning in the sheer beauty of it. Stargazing has always reminded you of when you were young, of sitting on the couch with your dad to watch Carl Sagan extol the wonders of the universe.

It reminds you of other things, now.

You recall the inky blackness of the furthest ring, of which you'd caught only glimpses from Derse. The endlessness of the ocean that surrounded the floating colony where you once grew up. Calliope and the trolls. Long nights spent calculating the future trajectories of four meteors, alongside your colleague, one Jacob Harley.

Despite your tumultuous mental state, it filters through to your conscious awareness at around three-thirty that Dirk's breathing is far too deep and irregular for him to be asleep.

"Are you awake?" you whisper into the darkness.

"Haven't fallen asleep yet," comes his rumbling reply.

"Do you wanna cuddle?"

"Fuck yes."

Dirk curls his much larger body around yours, and you feel the rasp of stubble as he lays his head on your chest, pillowed between your breasts. His big, warm, perpetually orange-Gojo-scented hands skim over your belly, stroking down your hips, and across the faded white stretch marks you earned carrying your children. You shiver pleasantly and sigh at his touch.

"Your body is so different from what I remember when we were teenagers."

At first you think he's making fun of you, and so you bite back a little tartly, "Yeah, that'll happen when you have kids."

"No, I like it," he says. "You used to be so skinny, and I thought you were beautiful then, but now..." He pinches at your upper thigh and sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Hips of a goddess, unf."

"And after twins, a vagina like a basketball hoop."

You feel him wince. "Shit, uh. Sorry about that."

"It's whatever," you smirk. "Nothing a couple kegels every now and then can't fix." The nurses at the hospital taught you that trick just after the kids were born, and you probably owe it to them that sex is still pleasurable for you.

Dirk goes quiet again for a moment in contemplation. You can practically see the gears turning in that thick head of his—he never misses an opportunity to blame himself for something. "I wish I could have been there for you, before they were born." His voice is heavy with regret. "I wish you hadn't been alone."

So do you, but that's not the way things were meant to happen. "You were just a kid, Dirk, and you didn't know me," you reason. "Think about it. What would you have done, if I'd come to you while I was pregnant?"

"I'd have run," he says bluntly, his fingers curling into a loose fist. "If you'd come looking for money, or proposing I stick around and we raise the kids together, I'd have skipped town the second you took your eyes off me. Maybe it was a good move on your part, skipping town yourself." His lashes brush against your skin as he closes his eyes. "Holding Dave for the first time, knowing he was mine—and knowing I was all he had... That's probably the only thing that could've convinced me to keep him."

While that stings you to hear, it also makes you feel marginally better about the idea of your life being preordained by outside forces. Things could have gone far worse for you than they had. And yet, you wonder if Dirk feels the same. Perhaps he feels he's been cheated, considering the disparity in how things ended up, with you making a comfortable six-figure salary and him barely scraping by. You wonder if he would have done things differently, had he had the choice.

"Do you remember anything from the night we met?" Dirk asks in a low murmur, warm breath feathering across your skin.

You gaze up at the stars, scritching your fingers into his coarse, slightly waxy hair. "Bits and pieces. It's more like impressions, really. I definitely do remember enjoying myself."

He snorts, tickling the tiny hairs on your skin. "If nothing else, at least my skills in the sack are unforgettable."

"As if any version of me could ever forget sleeping with you."

He says nothing to that, just squeezes your thigh reassuringly. He's well aware of what he means to you. _Best friend, comrade-in-arms, father of your children, soulmate_.

"What about you?" you ask him, massaging at his scalp. "What do you remember?"

"Everything," he answers at once. "Even halfway out of my skull on a beer and hormone cocktail, it made a big impression on me." For a moment, he sounds as young as he was then.

"Dirk?"

"Mm?"

"When we first talked over pesterchum this life, you told me you didn't regret... you know, sleeping with me and having kids. Now that you have your memories back, do you still feel that way?"

"Of course I don't regret it," he says with surprise. "What would make you think that I would?"

"It's just that... during the game, you told Janey you'd thought about settling down and having kids, but you couldn't ever be with me because you had to stay true to yourself."

He goes still. "Shit, she told you about that?"

"Arquiusprite did."

"That fuckin' traitor," he growls.

"He told me because I asked." And you won't lie; it fucking _hurt_. It was like hearing Dirk say, 'not even if you were the last woman on earth', except—oh wait.

Dirk smoothes a hand along your waist, and though you can feel the love and appreciation in his touch, there's no desire in it.

"I can't change who I am, Rox," he says softly. He even has the decency to sound sorry about it. "I could be attracted to you, if I was in the right mood and I wanted it to happen. But a flushed relationship... I couldn't do it."

You nod through the sting of unshed tears. "I know, and I understand. It's okay." It will always be painful to you that you can't have Dirk the way you want him, but you will take what you can fucking get. Besides, you couldn't ask for a more compatible moirail.

"Even so," he says, “knocking you up and raising a couple weirdo goddamn kids?" You snort despite yourself. "That's what I was meant to do. This is how our lives are supposed to be. The _only_ thing I regret is that I didn't remember you sooner."

"Yeah…"

You fall silent, your brain stuck on repeat telling you how _stupid_ the two of you have been in this life, hiding from each other and being angry with each other when you could have been best friends all along. You should have known him. As soon as you'd laid eyes on him all those years ago, you should have _known_ him.

You know the irony of the situation isn't lost on Dirk. But now that you remember each other for who you really are, now that you and Dirk have a lifetime of friendship to build on, things can only get better. You know _that's_ not lost on him, either.

"We'll survive this," you say, and you have enough confidence in yourself that your voice comes out strong and steady. "Everything sucks, like, major donkey balls–" Dirk snorts, "but we'll make it."

"Yeah, we will." He rolls off you and turns his head to plant a kiss between your breasts, just over your heart. "I love you, Rox."

You melt into a metaphorical puddle of smiling girl goo. _I love you too I love you unconditionally I would do anything to make you happy to my very last breath I love you._ "Yeah. Ditto."

When you finally fall asleep, it's in the strong, safe circle of Dirk's arms, with his steady heartbeat as a lullaby.

 

Despite your best efforts to sleep in the next morning, you awaken when the first feeble rays of sunlight come slanting into the room. You're warm and cozy, lying on your side, and someone's arm is strewn over you, a comforting weight. Did you go out and get drunk yesterday? Bring somebody home? You don't remember–

Oh. Right. _Sburb_.

There's no going back to sleep now, with the way your thoughts are racing. Might as well get up and start on breakfast. You extricate yourself from Dirk as gently as you can. He makes a soft, sleepy noise and turns over, but he doesn't wake. He must be utterly spent; normally he's a light sleeper. Your absence causes him to shiver, so you pull the blanket higher over his shoulders and tuck it in. Best he gets in a bit more rest before he has to face the events of yesterday.

You, meanwhile, slip into a sweater and track pants and head downstairs. To your surprise, your daughter is waiting for you at the breakfast bar. She likes to sleep in until almost noon most holidays.

"What are you doing up, baby?" you ask her blearily. It comes out more like a croak than anything actually resembling human speech.

"I was just hungry, so I came to snack," Rose shrugs.

You glance around and notice the conspicuous lack of food or empty plates, but you don't call her on it. She seems worried—about you, probably. Your reflection in the toaster does look pretty awful.

"Why don't I make us some breakfast?" you offer. "Toast?"

"That sounds good."

Neither of you say anything while you lower the lever on the toaster and listen to the hum of the red-hot coils. You know what Rose is up to; she's observing you, trying to figure out whatever it is that's been making you act strangely since yesterday morning. You think about testing her, dropping harmless tidbits about the Game universe to see if there's anything she does remember, but you decide it's not worth the extra scrutiny if she doesn't and thinks you're making it up. You're not sure you could bear her thinking you've lost it.

A couple of tense minutes later, the toast pops up, and you have an excuse to look busy. You spread the pieces with strawberry jam, and the two of you begin munching on them while the boys continue to sleep in.

Rose finally breaks the silence. "Mom?" she says hesitantly, after swallowing a bite.  

"Mm?" Oh god, here it comes. The concerned questions, the offer to get your head checked, the insinuation that you and Dirk are subject to some sort of shared delusion–

"Did you and Dad... you know, _sleep_ together?"

Oh. The question takes you off guard, shakes you right out of your heavy thoughts. "Where do you think you came from, babycakes?" you grin slyly, because while you may look like a grown woman, a part of you is still sixteen and thinks the subject of sex is hilarious.

Rose makes a face. "Ugh, no. I meant, did you sleep together _again_. Last night."

You bark out a laugh. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

She frowns, and then her cheeks go red. "On second thought? No. No, I wouldn't. Motion to strike the question from the record."

"Motion carried. But if you decide later that you wanna know all the sordid details, then I suggest you ask your dad aaaaall abo–"

" _Mom!_ " Rose shrieks.

You cackle quietly to yourself. Surely, the whole point of having kids is so you can embarrass the crap out of them for your own entertainment.

The man in question trudges into the kitchen only a few seconds later, bleary-eyed and wearing nothing but his boxers and your extremely ill-fitting pink silk robe. The flush on Rose's cheeks deepens. She lets out a nauseated groan and plunks her forehead down onto the breakfast bar like she's trying to sink into it. "Ugh, _whyyyy?_ "

Dirk drops onto the barstool next to Rose, rolling the cramps out of his shoulders. "What's her problem?" he grunts at you.

You shrug, and fight back a grin as you slot more bread into the toaster. "Beats me."

While Rose's head is still down, Dirk shoots you a sharper, more inquisitive look. He says nothing, but you can read the question in it plainly: _Are you okay?_

You nod shallowly in the affirmative. _I will be. You?_

Dirk gives you a little smile. It's tinged with sadness, and you can tell that his grief over Jake and Jane are seeping through, even with you and Rose here to distract him. But it's a smile nonetheless. _I'll get there eventually_.

Shortly afterward, Dave zombie-walks his way into the kitchen and pulls up a stool beside Rose and Dirk, a good chunk of his hair stood up at a ninety degree angle from his head. He raises an eyebrow at his dad's state of dress and grunts, "Fashionable." Dirk flips him the bird where he thinks you can't see it. Striders.

With your little family now complete, you figure you might as well cook up some scrambled eggs and bacon to go with the toast. The smell of hearty food does wonders to rouse your spirits. When the plates are distributed, you pour a couple glasses of juice (orange for you, Dirk, and Rose, apple for Dave, who takes his with a pleased "shitchyeah") and you sit down to eat.

It's nice. Relaxing. Comfortable.

"Soooo," Dave says awkwardly through a mouthful of eggs and toast, halfway through the meal. "Did you guys bone last night, or what?"

Dirk blinks; you snort-laugh; Rose spit-takes orange juice all over her plate. "I refuse to believe that I'm actually related to any of you," she grumbles.

You have the best family in the world. You and Dirk have each other, and your children, and for now, that's enough.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, there will likely be no updates this weekend. Too many wedding things to take care of, one of which is composing the music for my walk-on during the ceremony. Back to regularly scheduled updates on Monday!


	25. Desiderata

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I didn't get as much wedding stuff done as I'd have liked, but I had a great weekend! This Saturday, I attended the movie premiere for _The Book of Life _, the second feature film produced by the animation studio I work for. The official release date is October 17, and I highly recommend anyone interested go see it!__
> 
>  _ _Back to our regularly scheduled programming! In this chapter, further implications of remembering the game begin to come to light.__  
>     
> Individual warnings for this chapter: mentions of drug use, depression, mental illness.
> 
> ETA: Forgot the recommended listening for this chapter! ["Dream Within a Dream" by Oren Lavie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tHwWZ3T6Ocs).

\-- August, 2011 --

Your name is Dirk Strider, and sometimes you think your head is going to explode. It's crammed full of memories from three different timelines, all jockeying for space, and idiotically, you wonder if this is how a cat feels when it's on its ninth life.

At least coming from a future timeline has its perks. Not everything is the same, due to the absence of the Batterwitch's influence, but your memory of post-millennial history is accurate enough to have you sitting pretty like Biff Tannen with his shitty sports almanac. (If only you'd actually taken an interest in remembering sports facts.) Your rediscovered 25th century robotics knowledge has put you on the bleeding edge of technological advancement, and your freelance work brings in quite a bit of cash. Hell, you'd even published a modestly successful sci-fi novella, stolen from an author who has yet to be born and rewritten from memory, though the guilt of usurping the dude's future livelihood has made you think twice about doing it again.

And however fun it may be, cheating the system with your New Game+ knowledge only serves as a temporary distraction from the worst of your Sburb-induced PTSD. For the first couple months after that day, you were plagued by flashbacks and nightmares, and you've yet to sleep through the night without waking at least once in a cold sweat. You still recall with perfect clarity sucking dick in alleyways for cash to buy heroin, hearing voices in your head when you'd gone too long without video chatting with your friends, the sick euphoria of shooting up, and that brief eternity of unimaginable pain when you decapitated yourself. For you, the Game may never be over.

The only way for you to get rid of the headache is to talk about it. Normally when you want to discuss your other lives, you go to Roxy, but she's been at a scientific convention in Lucerne for a whole two weeks. You have a therapist, but your other lives aren't exactly something you can tell her about. Harley refuses to talk about the Game at all. (You don't even call him Jake in your head anymore; he's a different person than he was when you were in love with him.) Egbert remembers only fragments. And Jane, poor Jane is dead. Has been for years, and since she died before April of '09, she never knew about the Game. You miss her so, _so_ much.

None of the kids remember, either. It's endlessly frustrating to you, when you mention something about the Game without thinking, and Dave just sends you a blank look. And when he gets into the occasional funk, much as you'd like to, you don't think it would be very good for causality if you told him you'd adored his Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff films. But you're going insane here. You're hurting, and there's no one who can help you, or who understands. And Dave is so important to you, you need him to understand you. To believe you.

You don't necessarily _want_ him to have nightmares and flashbacks like you do, but he deserves to know, doesn't he? He deserves to reclaim the memories he lost. That's worth a bad dream every once in a while... right?

Maybe there's a way to jog his memory, just a bit.

You walk up behind Dave when he's on the computer chatting with Jade, and clap a hand down on his shoulder. He jerks away and jumps about three feet out of his chair.

" _Christ_ , dude, what do you want?" he asks, ripping off his headphones. Sburb Dave would have sensed you coming a mile away, and you try not to feel disappointed.

"Bro. Roof. Now," is all you say. 

Dave gives you that look, the one you hate, but he bids Jade an embarrassingly soppy farewell, puts up an away message, and obligingly follows you up the stairwell and out onto the pea gravel roof. "We bird watching or something?" On cue, a murder of disturbed crows lifts off, like something out of a John Woo film.

You step behind the noisy, rattling hulk of an air conditioning unit and retrieve the katana you'd stashed there once in a pique of nostalgia. "Nope."

"Holy shit!" Dave gawks, taking an eager step forward to admire the blade up close. "Where the hell did you get a sword? More importantly, why the hell do you _have_ a sword if you don't know how to use one?"

You raise an unimpressed eyebrow at him. While he watches, you slide your foot through the pea gravel, widening your stance, and then you launch into one of your flashiest sword katas. It comes back to you naturally as breathing. Your body twists with the motions, sending gravel up with each powerful strike, and you're grateful that being in fantastic shape is a constant across all your iterations. When you finish, you spin the sword in a totally unnecessary flourish, and then lob it so it lands stuck in the roof, hilt up, at Dave's feet. You breathe hard through your nose, triumphant.

Dave's jaw drops. "I... Never mind."

You flash him a brief smirk, then jerk your chin toward the blade. "Your go."

His eyebrows shoot up over the tops of his shades. He reaches for the hilt but then hesitates midway, as if he's afraid it's a trick, and the moment he touches it you're going to start lecturing him about sword safety. You stare expectantly at him, and eventually you either psych him out, or he decides the risk is worth it. "Ooookay." He runs cautious fingers up and down the twisted fabric grip, and then closes them tight around it.

"Pull," you direct him.

He pulls. The katana doesn't budge an inch. He growls in frustration, his cheeks tingeing red, and redoubles his grip. He gives a mighty yank this time, with so much force that when it comes free, he's left off balance and falls straight back onto his ass.

The sword clatters down next to him, and you wince. The part of you that is Sburb Bro is quietly disappointed.

"Goddammit," he whines, rubbing at his hipbone. "Pretend you didn't see that."

"Not a chance," you snort, though you're not in the mood for levity. You hold out a hand to pull him to his feet, and he grumbles at you, but he takes it. "C'mon," you say once he's upright. "Show me what you can do."

"Jawohl," he mutters.

Though it hasn't seemed very promising so far, your heart still jackhammers in your chest as he reaches down to pick up the sword from where it had landed. There has to be something of the old Dave in there. Muscle memory, or real memory; just... _something_. And if he can remember how to wield a sword, maybe he can remember other things. Maybe you won't feel like you're so alone.

Dave switches his stance to a wider, more solid one. "Here goes nothing," he says, and grits his teeth.

He flashsteps forward, a vague red blur, and then feints hard left, sending up a spray of gravel in his wake. He jabs, then doubles back and makes a showy, slicing motion in your direction. He pivots right, and the sword arcs with him, a line of bright orange fire reflecting the setting sun.

Just as he moves to recover from the spin, you see it. His foot slips in the gravel and he trips, dropping the blade in his surprise. He throws his hands out to catch himself, but the katana is _right there_ and he's going to fall on it, _fuck_ — But before you have time to process what's happened, you have him by the shoulders and you've kicked the sword away. Both of you are panting hard.

"Shit," he says, small and scared, his eyes as round as dinner plates. He's steady now, but you're afraid to let him go. At the same time, the enormity of what you just did, of what you _tried to do to him_ , hits you like a ton of bricks. Who cares whether he can fuck shit up with a sword? There's a damn good reason he doesn't remember Sburb. Your meddling could have hurt him, and badly.

Dave begins to squirm after a minute, and so you release him. He turns to face you with a tight, heavy frown. He knows he's failed this test, even though he wasn't aware of the parameters. "Sorry," he says, shoulders hunched. "Didn't mean to embarrass you or nothin'."

"It's alright," you reassure him, for both your sakes. It doesn't matter. He's still Dave, still your son, and you're not going to stop loving him just because he's not the way you remember him, or because he can't fix you. You ruffle his hair, and he relaxes a little.

"...Can we go back inside now?"

"Yeah. Yeah, let's go."

You stash the sword back into its hidden cubby, and vow never to try and force him to remember again.

 

That weekend, Roxy calls you from Lucerne to talk about the conference. When you're done discussing particle physics and snarking about her neckbearded male colleagues, you explain to her your experiment with Dave.

Predictably, her immediate reaction is to get all up on your nuts.

"How could you make him do something so _dangerous?!_ " she yelps. You hold the phone an inch or two from your ear. "He's my son too, you know. He could have gotten really hurt, messing around like that! You know he'd do anything to try to impress you."

"I know," you admit. "It was reckless. And selfish."

"You bet your ass it was. Besides," Roxy continues, "I could have told you it wouldn't work. I've already tried it on Rose. Not swords, mind you; I gave her needles. She still loves to knit, but... that's it. No stabbing, no horrorterrors, no alchemy, and no predicting the future. Though she did do a scarily accurate tarot reading for me once."

You give a half-hearted chuckle. "Guess it really is just us, then. And Harley, for what it's worth."

"Yeah. But isn't it better this way, when you think about it? Better for the kids not to know?"

"Is it?" you say uncertainly. You're still not a hundred percent convinced.

"They did some brave, inspiring, _amazing_ things during the Game, and I know you're proud of them. So am I. But... you remember what it was like to die as guardians. Not only did they die, too, but they were the ones to find our bodies. Remember when the kids made contact with our session? How _messed up_ they were about it under the surface."

"Yeah, I do. And that's not even to mention how their alpha iterations were slaughtered by the Batterwitch, or the fact that their troll friends are all missing."

"Exactly. Anyway, if we can spare them the pain of reliving all that, shouldn't we try? It means the burden is solely ours to bear, but that's just how it is. That's what being a parent is all about."

You want to argue— _god_ , do you want to argue, _it's not fair_ —but you know she’s right. In this case, ignorance really is bliss. You love Dave too much to try and take that away from him.

"...If I don't tell him," you say, "do I still have to buy him a Christmas present?"

Roxy lets out her trademark giggle-snort. "You know if you don't buy him one, I'm just gonna buy him twelve Hanukkah presents. Something nice, too. How about a puppy?"

"You wouldn't fucking dare, Lalonde," you growl at her playfully. "Besides, there's eight days of Hanukkah, you goy, not twelve."

"Psh, whatevs."

Though you still feel brittle inside, like you're held together with scotch tape and too much glue, things will be okay for now.

Good moirail. Best friend.

\--

Of course, if there’s anything you've learned in your three lifetimes, it's that depression can be as relentless as an imperial drone, dogging you every step of the way to recovery. Even with Roxy's help, within a couple weeks of your disaster of an experiment you start to feel restless and unfocused again, and it's affecting your daily life to the point that even Dave has noticed.

You decide it's high time you got out and _did_ something to take your mind off things. I.e., you go on a casual date. It's… been a while. Since before April 2009, to be precise. Ever since then, you've had trouble going to crowded places without getting intensely claustrophobic—hell, even just going outside. It's hard living in a city the size of Houston when part of you revolts in a blind panic every time you step outside your apartment door. It's gotten better since that first panic attack in the airport on the way to Roxy's, but you still take a moment to collect yourself before you leave, and there's an extra Xanax in your pocket just in case.

The guy is a friend of a friend whom you've never met, and as soon as you spot him in the bar where you've agreed to rendezvous, you can tell he's probably not your type. Little too clean-cut, too vanilla. You wave him over and buy him a drink anyway. It's the least you can do—and if you make a new friend out of it, hey, that's just as good.

The guy seems charming enough. His name is Jonah Croix, and he works in pool maintenance. When you tell him your day job is as a mechanic, he laughs and jokes how both your professions lend themselves to dirty gay porn scenarios.

You decide then that you like him a lot.

You spend the next couple of hours buying each other beers and talking about any and everything that crosses your minds. Movies, sports (mostly just nodding and smiling on your part), your hobbies, your respective tastes in music. Jonah does a hilariously spot-on impression of Marlon Brando that has you snorting Bud Light out your nose. Then he bets you ten bucks you can't remember all the words to Baby Got Back, and you proceed to thoroughly wreck his shit. He cheerfully pays up when you're done, and the bartender slides you a free shot for your sick flow. Fuck yeah. 

Several beers in, Jonah catches a glimpse of your tattoos and inquires about them. You push up your shirtsleeves and go through the obligatory explanations for each piece. First, the ancient red-orange band around your wrist (self-inflicted—your mom had just come off a spiel about how tattoos were forbidden by _Halakha_ , so naturally, you went and found somebody willing to loan a fifteen-year-old a tat gun). Then the long dagger on your inner forearm, a terrible pun on your name. The embellished star on your left shoulder, for your first real DJ gig. The teal shapes of wheeling seagulls on your right shoulder, gotten shortly after your dad kicked you out, to commemorate your 'freedom'.

When you get to the purple Dersite moon and Sburb aspect symbols you'd gotten after the Game, you try to handwave them away with some bullshit about how you thought the designs looked cool. But to your utter surprise, Jonah doesn't buy it.

"They aren't in reference to anything?" he asks, reaching out absently to brush a thumb along the arc of your Dersite moon tat. You shiver involuntarily at the touch. "They seem... familiar somehow."

Your heart speeds in your chest. It should be impossible for him to remember the Game unless he was involved in it as a player or a guardian, like you and Rox. Right? You peer closer at him. There were a number of troll players that you'd never met, although there is something vaguely familiar about him. Could he have been one of them?

"There's... there's something..." Jonah withdraws his hand, rubs at his temples like he's fighting off a killer migraine, and then drags his fingers back through his hair. It's almost as if he's searching for a pair of horns that's no longer there.

Then he looks up and locks eyes with you, and you notice for the first time that his eyes aren't brown like you'd initially thought, they're _violet_ —nearly the same hue as Rose's, if several shades darker.

"Derse," he says.

" _What?_ " You don't want to let on that you're familiar with the term, but not even your best poker face can disguise how shocked you are. You force yourself to relax your grip around your pint glass; any tighter and you might shatter it.

"Derse," he repeats. "That-that symbol. It means something, I know it does."

You're struck with a thought: this is your _chance_. If Jonah remembers, you won't be alone anymore. You've chosen to spare Dave because he's your flesh and blood, and you don't want him to get hurt. You have no such loyalties to this stranger.

You decide to nudge Jonah gently, to see how much he comes up with when prompted. "Maybe you saw it in a dream. What does it remind you of?"

He squeezes his eyes shut. "Not just a moon, but a-a planet, full of shiny black-shelled people. Some kind of chain, I think. And... sea monsters?"

There's no doubt in your mind that he's describing Derse. If he can remember the dream planet, perhaps you can push him to remember other things.

"I think I remember seeing something similar to what you described in a game, once," you offer casually. "Some kind of… augmented reality Bildungsroman sim. Know what I'm talking about?"

"I… Maybe." His brow creases in what almost looks like physical pain.

"Come on, I'm sure you've heard of it," you press on. "Some of the participants played as different races. Ring any bells?"

"Trolls," Jonah coughs out. "They played as... I was a troll."

"What was your class?" you ask eagerly. You're almost there.

"I don't know. I–"

"Your aspect? Jonah, come on. Remember."

"I... N-no, I can't..." His free hand clenches around his napkin. So _close_. He's shaking on his barstool, his breaths coming short and fast, but it doesn't matter. You _need_ this. You need to be understood, to be able to share this part of your life with someone other than Roxy, the way you can't share it with Dave.

 _Dave_. You think back to your experiment and you remember the terror in his eyes, terror _you put there_ —your own son, _how could yo_ u—and the bartender is looking your way, concerned, and–

This isn't right. What kind of sociopath are you, that for a moment you were convinced it was worth it?

You tug your shirtsleeves down, then grip Jonah by the shoulder and gently shake him. "Hey dude," you call to him, low and concerned. He snaps out of his trance with a violent shiver, then blinks up at you in confusion. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I… What were we talking about?"

You can see in his eyes that he has no idea—he doesn't remember, thank fuck. Almost like it never happened. You have the chance to start over with him, tabula rasa, and maybe try not to be such a raging cockbag this time. Stranger or not, he deserves better.

"I, ah, just got done telling you about my tats," you say cautiously.

"Ohhh, right," he nods, clueless. "Well... What about that one? Are you a Gemini?" Jonah asks, pointing at the faded ink on your inner wrist, the only tattoo left exposed.

"Hah, no, Pisces, actually." You will never get over how bizarre it is having your birthdate inverted, from 12/3 to 3/12. It's a big step down the weirdness echeladder from 'paradox slime clone', though. "I got this one in honor of my kids."

Jonah does a double-take. "Wait, you have kids?"

"Oh. Uh. Yeah," you admit, embarrassed they hadn't come up sooner in your hours-long conversation—world's greatest dad, right? "Twins, actually, which is why I picked that symbol."

"Huh," he says with an intrigued eyebrow quirk. "Identical or fraternal?"

"Fraternal. Hold up, I have a picture." You fish your phone out of your pocket and cycle through the camera roll till you come to your most recent photo, a charming shot of Rose snickering at an irate Dave, who's festooned with wads of silly string and flipping her off. "Took this one a few months back, when they turned fifteen."

Jonah's other eyebrow goes up, and you can literally see him trying to do the math in his head, but he doesn't say anything. (Good man; those snide little 'you started young' comments have gotten pretty damn old by now.)

"That one's my boy, Dave," you explain, pointing, "and that's my daughter, Rose." Both of them would absolutely murder you if they knew you were showing this picture to people. Ah, but what they don't know won't hurt them.

A lesson hard learned.

Jonah peers closer at the phone screen and chuckles. "They sure look like you."

"Psh, they'd better." As if there's any doubt they're yours. "But hey, lucky for them, right?" you joke.

Jonah's eyes flick back up to you, and his voice goes deeper, almost sultry. "I'd say so, yeah."

Is he flirting with you? ...He's definitely flirting with you. You don’t blush often or easily, but you can feel the tips of your ears heating up. "I, uh. Thanks."

"Do you have custody?"

Interesting change in tack. "Of my son, yeah. Rose lives with their mom in New York." Then it occurs to you that he might have an ulterior motive for his line of questioning. "Of course, Dave's a big boy, and he could take care of himself for one night, if you wanted to..."

Jonah's tells are obvious—his tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and his pupils dilate just a fraction wider. "Would you... maybe like to come back to my place with me?" he asks.

The longer you spend with this guy, the more eye-crinkling smiles you tease out of him, the more you like him. But after trying to brute force unlock his memories, do you really deserve the privilege of his company?

Brain ghost Roxy thwaps you upside your metaphorical head. For once you let her make the decision, rather than the depression.

_Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone fucks up now and then. That doesn't mean you can't make it right, and it doesn't mean you don't deserve to be happy._

You grin. "Y'know, I think I would."

\--

Hey, kiddo. Looks like I'm not coming home tonight.   
You gonna be fine on your own for twelve hours?   
ew gross   
but yeah im good   
you get it gurl

\--

Jonah surprises the hell out of you—and that's hard to do. He might come off as a white-bread hipster type in casual conversation, but in bed, he's a pushy as fuck power bottom who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to take it. Though it's not in your nature to be so passive, you lie back and let him have his merry way with you, for once content to enjoy the ride. (Heh.) You're sporting some pretty impressive bite marks by the end of it.

"Holy balls," Jonah grunts and rolls off you once you've both finished. 

"That was intense," you agree through your blissed-out haze. You haven't felt so thoroughly spent in years; it's fantastic. You tie off your rubber and deposit it in the trash can Jonah helpfully provides, and then flop backwards onto the bed. If you weren't worried about impinging on his hospitality, you'd roll over and go right the fuck to sleep.

Jonah, on the other hand, jitters with nervous energy. He leans over to fish in his nightstand and comes back with a pack of cigarettes. "Smoke?" he offers, and you shake your head no. "Well d'you mind if I do?"

"It's your place; go right ahead."

He strikes a match and holds it to the cigarette, slumping visibly after the first pull. "I'm always wired after sex," he says, waving his hand and leaving behind squiggles of smoky cursive. "Beats me as to why."

You dismiss the obvious response, 'bet I could tire you out', as too easy. "Is this the kind of sex you're used to having?" you ask instead.

"Yeah. Vanilla, right? Maybe not by average standards, but you seem like a guy who knows his way around, kink-wise."

You chuckle darkly. "You have no idea."

"That's not to say I'm not open to some freaky deaky every now and then. I like to be in control most of the time, but I've got a submissive streak in there, too. You just have to wrangle it outta me."

"Hm." You wonder if you could convince him to try a scene with you. What would it take to break him?

Jonah sinks down under the comforter, his body finally beginning to unwind. "Sooo," he says conversationally, bracing himself on one elbow to look at you. "Pillow talk?"

"Hah, alright," you snort. "You first."

He scratches at his chin pensively with his cigarette hand. "Tell me about your family. Like, is your son a lot like you?"

Huh, most guys you sleep with don't care to hear about your kids. "He's like me in some ways. We share similar skills and a lot of the same tastes, but that's primarily 'cause I raised him. He got his sass and his motor mouth from his mom. My daughter's probably more like me, personality-wise. Sharp, collected, a little devious, not interested in the opposite sex…"

It felt odd, meeting Rose for the first time and seeing bits and pieces of yourself in her, even though she'd grown up half a continent away. Doubly odd, seeing Roxy in Dave. It explained some things, though.

"What's your relationship with your kids' mom like?"

"Roxy?" You smile unconsciously. "She's my best friend. She's brilliant, and sweet, and she's the strongest person I know. Not to mention she looks great on paper."

"Really? How great?"

"She has two doctorates."

"...Oh." Jonah rolls closer and frowns thoughtfully at you. "Do I detect a hint of bitterness?"

You wince, ashamed, partly for being so obvious about it, but mostly for feeling bitter in the first place. "It's not as if I begrudge her her success, because fuck that. But maybe I am a little jealous. I don't know."

"It seems like you've got a pretty good thing going on too, degree or no. What's the point of being jealous over it?"

You roll over to stare at the popcorn ceiling, gathering your thoughts. This shit's tough to talk about, even with your shrink. "I was stuck so far up my own ass as a teenager that I barely even graduated high school," you explain. "And then there's Roxy. When I stand next to her, or if we're ever introduced together, I just..."

"You feel judged?"

You shake your head. "Not even that. I don't... I don't want my kids to be embarrassed of me." Fuck.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Jonah exhales with a plume of smoke. "Nobody could blame you, though. It would've been impossible to do the whole college thing with a baby on the side."

"Yeah. I mean, I'd already screwed up my chances on my own by then, but when Dave came along, that kinda sealed the deal."

Jonah flops over onto his back. "Aw fishsticks, that makes me feel like shit. I had my whole tuition bought and paid for, and I turned it into a joke."

"Why, what did you major in?" you ask, rolling over to face him again.

"Philosophy," he groans. "My dad fuckin' hated the idea, and that's part of what made it so attractive to me."

Oh god, that's too much. You bark out laughing, covering your face with your hands.

"C'mon, guy, what's so funny?" Jonah elbows you.

You pause in your laughter to wipe at your eyes. "If I'd ever made it to college, that's exactly what I would've majored in, for exactly the same reason."

Jonah laughs too, at that. "What a couple a' fuckin' shitheads." Then he taps away his ashes and asks, "You ever think about trying to enroll, now that your kids are older?"

Huh. "It's crossed my mind. It seemed like a good idea, but I was always too busy. The last time I seriously thought about it must've been a few years ago."

"And? What do you think about it now?"

You humor him and consider it, You are at an advantage now, with your practical future knowledge and adult life skills. You could go back and get a degree in robotic engineering, and legitimize your side business, or double major in that and computer science. Hell, you could probably write the textbooks.

"Hm. Maybe."

"You should do it, dude. I know you'd kill it."

You flash back to all the million and one times you've heard that before. But this time, you don't have to dismiss the idea out of hand. In fact, it's almost _plausible_.

You smile faintly, picturing the empty space on the wall where you'd hang a degree. "...I'll look into it."

Jonah smiles back. "Alright, I've badgered you enough. Your turn."

You wrack your brain for something suitably personal to ask him without coming off as an asshole. "How does one transition from philosophy to pool maintenance?"

"You mean aside from the fact that philosophy's a useless major?" he huffs with wry amusement. "My ego got the better of me. I wanted to be the next Jack Kerouac, or the next Arlo Guthrie when I was younger. Y'know, hitch and hoof it from one end of the country to the other, with nothing but the guitar on my back, makin' memories."

Obviously that didn't pan out. "So what happened?"

" _Reality_. I started in L.A., and got as far as Hermann Park here in Houston before I ran outta money. I started busking on street corners just to buy food, and that's when I knew it wasn't gonna work. So I sold out. Called up my dad, and got him to send me a few thousand bucks. I made a deposit on an apartment and got myself a job, and... basically, that's it."

"Ever been back?"

"Nah."

"Why not?"

"Reasons."

"Reasons," you repeat blankly.

He seems to debate something internally for a moment, sucking on his cigarette, and then he says, "I have a kid too, y'know."

"No shit," you blink, taken by surprise.

"Yeah. Just before I left L.A., I was with this girl, Amelia. Fellow trust-fundie, and pretty entrenched in the rich girl life. She thought me takin' off was the dumbest thing she'd ever heard, so we broke it off. But as soon as I settled down in Houston, got myself an address and a landline, she called me up. Told me she was pregnant. Needless to say, I was scared outta my mind. She wanted me to come back and be involved in the kid's life, but I just… couldn't. Court stuck me with a token child support bill, which I paid outta pocket the first two years. The inheritance my grandpa left me kicked in when I turned twenty-five, though, so after that, I just started forwarding the monthly payouts to Amy and the kid."

You're not sure how to respond to that, so you say nothing.

Jonah takes another long drag, and the cherry crackles, nearly down to the filter. "His name is Daniel. He must be… shit, almost eight by now."

"Eight's a good age." You remember Dave at eight, adorably earnest about trying to be 'cool', but with that little-kid excitement about life shining through at every turn.

"I wouldn't know," he says bitterly. "I've never met the kid, or spoken to him over the phone, or anything. I don't know the first thing about him."

Oh. So that's why he asked what Dave is like. But if he really wants to know about his own son, "Why don't you give this Amy a call? Ask to talk to him?"

Jonah scoffs. "Are you shittin' me? After all this time? Kid'd probably fuckin' hate me, and I wouldn't blame him. I'm not sure he even knows I exist."

You are certifiably the worst person on the goddamn planet at comforting people, but you give it a shot anyway. "Hey, dude. If there's anything kids are good at, it's forgiving people. I oughtta know."

"There's nothing I could ever do to make up for all this time pretending he doesn't exist."

"Maybe not, but if you're there for him long enough, he'll forget there was ever a time when you weren't around."

"You sure about that?" he asks you hopefully.

You think about Dave's relationship with Roxy, still fragile even three years post-reunion. "Honestly, no. But you gotta try, dude."

"I… maybe." He stubs the smoldering remains of his cigarette in the ashtray on his nightstand and smiles, ever so faintly.

You close your eyes for a moment and let out a jaw-cracking yawn. After public socializing, vigorous sex, and deep conversation, you're tired something fierce.

"Yeah, alright, bedtime," Jonah murmurs in agreement. The light behind your eyelids dims to blackness. "Stick around in the morning, and I'll cook you breakfast. I do a mean omelet. You can bring some back to Dave, if you want."

"You got it, bro." Your stomach rumbles just thinking about it. Not often a one-night-stand invites you to stay for food, but then, maybe he likes you as much as you like him. "Wanna do this again sometime?" you ask sleepily. "Next weekend? You can tell me about your kid."

"Yeah, for sure," he says, and finds your hand in the dark to squeeze it with his own. "But I want to hear all about college applications."

"Deal."

\--

Dave's lounging on the couch in sweatpants when you get back the next morning, feet planted on the edge of the coffee table, eating dry Lucky Charms out the box and watching Maury Povich.

"Jesus, I leave you alone for _one night_ ," you groan as you close the front door.

Dave glares at you over his shades and shouts, " _You are not the father!_ "

"...Except that yeah, I kinda am."

"Sucks to be you," he shrugs, and crams his face with another handful of Lucky Charms. You're halfway to the shower to wash off last night's stank when he adds abruptly, "Could you teach me?"

You pause in your tracks. "What?"

"The sword stuff." He's pointedly still facing the TV, but his eyes behind his shades flick from you to the screen and back. "I mean, you obviously know what you're doing, even though I _know_ you've had, like, zero time to learn. So I figure you could probably teach me."

You swallow hard. Do you want this? In a way, it seems unfair, like you're once again molding Dave into the fighter he doesn't need to be in this universe. But if this is really what he wants... maybe it's what he's _meant_ to be.

"I—yeah. Yeah," you smile. "I'd be happy to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's one of the surprise pairings! I will add a tag when I post tomorrow's chapter.


	26. What Goes Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Individual warnings for this chapter: minor character death, mentions of past abuse.
> 
> Geez, a lot of people die in this ostensibly 'fluffy' fic. Soh-reeeee!

\-- March, 2013 --

Your name is Dave Strider, and you're a senior in high school when he finally tracks you down. Not that it's too hard these days. A couple of years ago, a local radio DJ had played some of your mixes, and people liked them so much that you got signed on a minor, local label. Your albums sell well enough that you rake in a pretty substantial allowance, but the best part is that people sometimes recognize you and know your name without you telling them.

"Dave Strider?"

"Yeah?" you say, shuffling to a stop on the sidewalk and shoving your hands into your jeans pockets. You always have time to bask in adulation from your adoring fans. But the guy standing in front of you doesn't look like the type who'd listen to your music. He's older, maybe in his late fifties, with graying hair and a lined face, thick eyebrows drawn into a frown.

"David Strider," he repeats, as if he can't believe you're standing in front of him.

"In the flesh, dude. You need me to pinch you or something?"

The guy leans forward and peers at you, and then his expression morphs into something almost hungry. "It's _you_. I found you."

All your hair stands on end, and when he reaches out like he's trying to grab your shoulder, you dodge the hell away from him. "Woah, woah, stranger fucking _danger_. Keep your creepy pedo hands off the merchandise."

The guy backs off a couple feet, but you're still wary, glancing around from behind your shades and plotting potential escape routes. This street is crowded enough that if you yell, someone is bound to hear. You know for a fact that the guy who owns the convenience store on the corner keeps a gun. And if worse comes to worse, Bro had you practice the nut-shot-and-run technique so many times that you've perfected it into an art.

"Wait, I'm sorry," the stranger backpedals. "I didn't mean to scare you. It's just—I... God, you look so much like him."

"Like who?" you ask, but the guy blows right on by the question.

"We need to talk. You have to come with me. Have a coffee or something." There's a cafe and attached fruit stand across the street, and he eyes it meaningfully.

"Uh _huh_ ," you cluck, shifting your weight to one foot for easier nut-kicking, should it become necessary. This guy's gotta be delusional. "And why the hell would I do that?"

He wrings his hands rather than answering, running his fingers over a worn golden band on his left ring finger. After a couple of seconds spent silently chewing over whatever's got his panties in a twist, he sighs and looks you in the eye through your shades.

"Because," he says, "I'm your grandfather. My name is Rick Strider."

 

"Ooookay," you drawl. It's a few minutes later, and you're seated across from Rick with a coffee and an apple juice between you, against your better judgment. The only reason you agreed to this is you were too shocked to say no. Now that you've pulled yourself together, it's curiosity keeping you from flipping him the bird and moonwalking all the way back to your apartment. "Let's go over this again," you say with steepled fingers. "You're my grandpa."

"Yes."

"My dad's dad."

"Yes."

"You've lived twenty minutes away from us my whole life, and yet I've never met you... why?"

Rick's expression falters, and you know you've touched a nerve. Good. Bro has never had anything nice to say about your grandpa, so you figure you owe it to him to give the man hell.

"It's complicated," he tries, but you cut him off.

"Blah blah, bullshit. I've already heard this schtick from other family members who thought they could explain away years of lost contact with a couple platitudes. You don't get to take any shortcuts. Tell me _why_."

Rick suffers a moment of shocked silence, and then leans toward you, a nasty and scarily familiar sneer on his face. "I see Dirk has raised you to be a disrespectful little shit, just like he was."

"No, _fuck you_ ," you snarl, lunging forward until your noses are only a few inches apart. Your pulse is a dull roar in your ears. "He raised me to show respect to people who deserve it, and he did it by his goddamn self. He taught me that if you love your kids, you don't cut them out of your life. Not when they need you most." You're badly shaken, your cool facade in tatters at your feet—this hits home in an unpleasant way for you, too—but you don't give a damn about appearances right now. Striders don't take this kind of shit from anyone. Not even other Striders.

Your words have exactly the desired effect. Rick stops looking angry, then cycles back through shocked, deflated, and remorseful. He settles himself back in his chair. "I'm... Hell, I'm sorry, Dave," he says hesitantly, like the words are hard for him to get out. "See? This is what got me here in the first place, my pride and my temper."

He places his hands upon the table, palms up, in a conciliatory gesture. "Let me try again?"

You take your seat again and give him a reluctant nod. "Go ahead."

"Dave, your father... He wasn't the easiest kid to raise. He was arrogant, rude, and obsessed with his image. He thought he was infallible. Invincible. But," Rick says, speeding up, as if he can sense you're losing your patience, "if he learned it from anyone, it was from me. And there's no excuse for the way I treated him."

Though you know the description of Bro's childhood you're hearing is filtered through Rick's lingering resentment, you can imagine Bro being a pain in the ass when he was younger. And Rick really does look sorry. Still, maybe not sorry enough.

"You hurt him," you say, leaning back in your chair and running your tongue along your teeth. "He might not want to admit it, but you hurt him real bad."

Rick looks away. "I know I did. I let my pride run my life, even after I'd stopped being angry at him and started feeling ashamed. I couldn't bring myself to apologize. And after a while, it felt like even if I did, it would be too late."

That is... really dumb, but you have to give the guy props for owning up to it. "So what changed your mind?" you ask, sipping at your juice. "Why come to me, after all this time?"

His mouth tightens into a line, his gaze growing unfocused and upset. "My wife, Deborah—Dirk's mother. She... she passed away on Tuesday. It was very sudden, an undetected brain tumor."

Despite never having met her, you feel a tiny jolt of sadness. Maybe it's the realization that now, you never will. The closest thing you ever had to a grandma growing up was Madge, Bro's old boss. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Deborah never forgave me for cutting contact with Dirk, not after we found out he had you," Rick explains. "But she never had the courage to track you down. I'm afraid I bullied her out of it."

You snort angrily. "That's a shitty thing to do. I imagine Bro would have liked to know his mother still cared about him _before_ she died. And dangling Bro over her head for fifteen years? Fucked up." Bro was certain Rick had never physically abused Deborah, but you wouldn't be even remotely surprised if verbal abuse was involved.

"I know. I took that away from both of them. And now that my wife is gone, you and your sister and Dirk are the only real family I have left—and I don't even have you; I made sure of that."

"Well, you shorted yourself, dude," you say. "Missed out on some prime years of my childhood. That's dozens of crappy crayon drawings your fridge was never graced with. Years of free lawn service. And Fathers' Day gifts, and baseball games—not that I ever played baseball—and fly fishing, and whatever other shit grandpas do with their grandkids. And you missed Rose for real; she and Mom were here just a couple months ago, so she probably won't be back 'til this summer. Welp." You take a deep breath when you finish your tirade, and only then do you realize that you're just as bitter as Rick is. You've _all_ been cheated here.

Rick looks about ready to break out into stoic tears of Man Pain. Even you're not vindictive enough to want to see that, so you change the subject to try and pull him back. "But hey," you say, "it's in the past. What's important now is, why'd you come to me? Are you trying to get me to make Bro reconcile things with you or some shit?"

"He's got to, right?" says Rick adamantly. "We're family. I know it'll take time to earn his forgiveness, but–"

"Woah, woah," you interrupt, holding up a hand, and Rick falls short. "I'm gonna stop you right the fuck there."

"Why?" he demands.

"Be _cause_ ," you explain slowly, as if to a petulant toddler, "you may think you're entitled to his forgiveness, but you're not. Not 'cause you're family, not 'cause your wife died, or for whatever other reason you think he might owe it to you. You forfeited any rights you had as family when you disowned him. So yeah, maybe you played sperm donor, and maybe you changed a couple diapers when he was a kid, but you ain't been there for him for years. If—and _if_ —he forgives you, it'll be because he fucking decided to. He don't owe you shit. Got that?"

Rick opens his mouth like he's ready to argue, but either you actually got through to him, or he decides it just isn't worth it. "I got it," he says at length. "Will you take me to him, at least? His mother's funeral is tomorrow, and I'd... I'd like to be the one to tell him."

Your jaw works as you consider. Everything in you screams that this is a bad idea, that forcing Bro to confront his father is a dick move, that it can't end well. But you remember back to when you reconciled with Mom, and you think that maybe there's some peace to be gained here.

"Fine."

The two of you sit in silence for a few more minutes, attempting to ingest strength and peace of mind via the medium of coffee and apple juice. After you're finished, you stand wordlessly and lead the older man through the dust and towering city blocks toward your home.

 

Rick seems impressed when you enter the lobby of your building. You suppose it is pretty damn swank. The front desk has a receptionist, this hunky young guy with a sweater vest and a bitchin' mohawk. "Mister, uh, Strider," he greets you (as he always does, no matter how many times you insist 'It's just, uh, Dave'), and you nod back.

"This is a nice place," Rick admits when you step into the elevator. He moves closer to examine the painting on the back wall, which is real and not a print.

"Yeah?" you mutter. What was he expecting, a cardboard box?

"I've seen the building where you were living before," he explains. "I passed by once or twice."

"Not as impressed by the good ol' Dour Tower?" you smile thinly.

Rick says nothing. Well, fuck him; you spent the formative years of your life in the Tower, and some of your best friends still live there. Besides, if he thought it was that shitty, he could've stepped in to help Bro out at any point. But he hadn't. Just like your mother hadn't.

When you reach the door of the apartment, you turn to Rick and say quietly, "Wait here." You have no idea how Bro will react, and you want to prepare him as best you can. You slip inside the door.

Bro's seated at the kitchen table, elbow deep in the guts of his robotics thesis project. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he solders a tiny, delicate wire to a chipboard. He's in one of those grooves where he won't notice you unless you forcefully grab his attention, and so when he's finished soldering you wave your hands in front of his face. He blinks and pushes his shades up his sweaty forehead with his free hand. "'Sup, kiddo? How was school?"

You open your mouth to explain what's going on, but the words won't come, and so you stand there gaping like an idiot for a full ten seconds. Not your smoothest moment. Bro sets down the soldering iron and gets up out of his chair, looking you over with his brow furrowed. "Something on your mind?"

Your stomach double-taps R and does a barrel roll. "Yeah," you croak. No backing out now. "You should probably take a deep breath or something. I've got somebody with me who wants to talk to you, and... I ain't sure you're gonna like it."

Bro tenses visibly, fingers curling into fists. "If this is a prank, it isn't funny. But if it's not, and you're in some kind of trouble..."

"It's not like that. Just. Hold on a minute."

"Jesus, don't tell me it's the police," he groans, but you ignore him, sticking your head through the door.

"Come on," you beckon. Rick's throat clicks, like he's trying to swallow but it's gone dry. He moves forward and you open the door wide enough to allow him passage.

"Call me a hypocrite, whatever, but I–" And then the words dry up in Bro's throat. His shades are still pushed up, so you can see his golden-orange eyes go wide, and then narrow. "Dave," he says without looking at you. You walk away from Rick and over to him just as surely as if he'd pulled you by a string.

Rick looks pants-shittingly nervous, eyes darting between Bro's face and his clenched fists. Bro's not exactly the wiry kid he was when Rick last saw him. He still manages a scratchy, "Hello, Dirk."

"Richard."

A lot of the time Bro seems more like a brother to you than a father (hence the nickname), although he's not without parental instincts. Last year, some dickhead ran a red light and T-boned the passenger side of Bro's truck, right where you were sitting. You staggered your way out with little more than a concussion and some bruised ribs, but every morning for the next week, you found aspirin and a glass of cold apple juice on your nightstand. Bro didn't even object when Mom offered to drop the cash for a new truck with a four-star safety rating.

Right now, he is every inch your father. He stands tall beside you, his jaw set, hackles raised, hand planted firmly on your shoulder. There isn't a doubt in your mind—he'd kill to protect you.

"Why are you here?" he growls. "What do you want with Dave?"

Rick spreads his hands in a gesture of peace, but you can see the sweat beading on his temples. "I just want to talk to you, son."

 _Son?_ Fuckin' weaksauce. Bro is just as unimpressed, judging by the venom in his voice. "Does Mom know where you are?"

Rick flinches as if he's been slapped. He takes a deep breath and says, "She's gone, Dirk. That's why I'm here. She passed away on Tuesday, and the funeral is tomorrow."

If the news surprises Bro, he doesn't show it. "My condolences," he sneers.

You turn to face him incredulously. Shouldn't he be more upset? Then you remember that for the past fifteen years, he's been convinced his mother hated him. Rick must realize it too, but he doesn't try to defend his late wife or offer any explanation. Maybe he's given up on trying to get Bro to understand. Maybe he's simply reached his daily limit for apologizing.

"Please, Dirk, come tomorrow," is all he says. "You and your children are the only blood family I have left. It would mean so much to me if you and Dave were there, and I know it would have meant everything to your mother, too."

"You know what would have meant a lot to me? A fucking phone call every five years!"

"Dirk, I'm sor–"

"Save it!" he barks, and Rick shuts his mouth with a snap. The ensuing silence rings out like a gunshot. No one moves for what feels like thirty seconds, until you turn again and give Bro another look.

_Well?_

Bro eyes you hard. He considers for a moment, and sighs heavily through his nose. "...I'll go to the funeral."

"Thank y–"

"But not for your sake," Bro interrupts again. "For Mom's. Now get out of my apartment, and _stay away from my son._ "

Rick goes quiet, his expression crumpling into one of deep hurt. He looks like a sad old man, and though you're not ready to forgive him for the way he treated Bro, you feel kinda sorry for him. He backs away, slinks through the door, and closes it behind himself without another word. Gone, just like that.

After a few tense moments, the fight leaves Bro's body all at once and he sags onto the couch. "Shit. Shit." He looks shaken and exhausted. You're not sure whether he's angry with you for forcing him and Rick to talk, but you hazard sitting down next to him anyway. It's better than leaving him alone.

"You gonna be okay, dude?" you ask.

Bro rubs at the bridge of his nose, where his shades usually rest. "I don't know," he says miserably. "Eventually. I just. _Shit._ "

You wish there was something you could say to him to ease his mind, but you're at a loss. You'd call up Bro's on-and-off-again boyfriend Jonah, but he moved back to California last month to be closer to his kid. It's just the two of you, and you just don't do 'feelings' the way your girlfriend and your sister do. Not for the first time, you wish you could channel a bit of Jade's empathy or Rose's understanding and just... fix this. But in the end, all you can do is sit there beside him for the rest of the night while he lounges with his head tilted back, eyes closed, and just breathes.

You hope that at the very least, he finds your steady presence as comforting as you always found his.

 

It's raining the next day, the morning of the funeral. How appropriate. Neither you nor Bro speak a word to each other during the long drive over; you sit in the passenger seat and drum your fingers in your lap, watching the rain course sideways along your window like little branching veins, and he stares straight ahead. You cast the occasional glance at him, just to take him in. He looks out of place in his charcoal gray suit and dark orange tie, and bare without his shades. He has faint tan lines on the backs of his hands where his gloves usually reside, and his fingers are gripped tight around the steering wheel. His exposed knuckles are white.

You slouch further into your seat, ignoring the way it ruins the lines of your own suit. You wish so dearly that you could just crack a joke and break the tension, but you know that won't work. Not today.

Deborah is being interred indoors at a mausoleum, rather than at a cemetery. Fortuitous, considering the weather. Bro pulls into the parking lot and you immediately get out, umbrella wedged between your neck and shoulder so you can stretch out your limbs. You end up having to wait a few minutes before Bro works up the motivation to get out of his own seat. When he eventually does, you follow him into the building.

The funeral service is in a little chapel off the main wing. (The casket is closed, to your relief. You weren't exactly looking forward to seeing the corpse of your dead grandmother.) There are maybe fifteen or twenty people in the room when you arrive, but you don't recognize anyone. They seem to know who _you_ are, though. A couple of them catch sight of you and Bro when you walk in and do double-takes.

Only one of them is brave enough to approach, a man about Rick's age with white hair and a plethora of laugh-lines around his eyes. His smile belies the somber atmosphere in the room, and the black ribbon pinned to his lapel. He shakes Bro's hand, and says in a conspicuous Boston accent, "Good to see you, kid. Although I guess I can't call you that anymore."

"Nah, that's my little man these days," Bro agrees, planting his other hand on your shoulder. His voice is scratchy from disuse; it's the first complete sentence he's strung together all day.

You grumble in annoyance under your breath. You are not a kid, dammit, nor are you anyone's 'little man'.

"Hit the big three-oh a few years ago, didn't you?" the stranger asks, and Bro nods.

"I'm thirty-five in a week." (Christ, you forget just how young he is sometimes.) "I think you aged more than I did, though. What are you now, like, eighty-five?"

"Sixty-two, you little shit!" the older man grins, and he lands a good-natured fist against Bro's shoulder. Bro humors it far better than he would from someone he didn't like.

The man turns to you next, a bit more serious. "You must be Dave," he says, looking you over, and you nod. "I'm Paulie. Paulie Gershon. It's nice to finally meet you."

'Finally'? You give a mental shrug, shake his hand and say, "You too."

Paulie's grip is vise-firm, and he holds onto your hand a bit longer than is necessarily polite. His mouth twitches in what might be another smile. "Well, I'd better get going," he says and releases you. "I'll see you around sometime, yeah Dirk? Maybe the next time I'm in town visiting the rest of the family? I'm sure they'd love to have you and Dave over for dinner."

"Maybe," Bro says with a noncommittal gesture.

Paulie looks as if he expected as much. He says nothing else, just shoots Bro a quick thumbs-up and moves to take his seat.

"My mother's brother," Bro says quietly. "He's a good guy. We kept in touch for a long time after I moved out of my parents'."

"He's the one who would send me presents on my birthday when I was little," you realize aloud, and Bro hums in the affirmative.

"Like I said, a good guy."

Paulie keeps glancing your way, even after he's seated, like he's loath to let you two out of his sight. You make a mental note to start giving the guy a call every once in a while.

The rabbi emerges from the rear of the chapel to stand in front of the casket, and all the people still milling about move to take their seats. There's an entire unoccupied row of chairs in the back, and you and Bro take the two on the end.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want," begins the rabbi. You're already tuning it out. Neither you nor Bro have ever been religious, although a few years ago, Bro told you something to the effect of 'you and your sister are the only gods I believe in anymore', whatever that means. You're far more interested in people-watching than in the service. Paulie looks contemplative in the front row, and sad. On the opposite end of the row, Rick sits with his jaw clenched. This has got to be devastating for him.

Beside you, Bro is blank-faced. It's a careful blankness, though, nothing so easy as his usual poker face, and his hands are still clenched where they rest in his lap. He's more affected by this than he wants to be, and as a guy who prides himself on being in control of his emotions, that frustrates him.

 _Shit_ , you think, _I should have a degree in this body language stuff_. And yet you don't see it coming when Bro suddenly stands, wavers for a moment, and then walks out of the chapel in the middle of a prayer. Huh. Your immediate inclination is to follow him, but then you think the better of it. Maybe he needs time alone. You might as well stick around where you are, out of respect for the dead if nothing else.

The eulogy ends a short time later, and all the friends and relatives file out of the chapel and over to the vault where Deborah will be interred. Bro still hasn't returned, so you just follow the procession quietly and stand in the back. You find that with him gone, people are more willing to approach you.

"You're Dirk's boy," says a very old lady who smells like mothballs. You nod. She gazes forlornly at the casket as the pallbearers slide it into the vault, and says, "That's my niece they're burying. I suppose that makes me your great-great aunt."

"It's nice to meet you," you reply, and you shake her fragile, papery hand. "Wish the circumstances were better."

It makes you feel strange and a little overwhelmed, suddenly having relatives where before there was only your mother, your sister, and Bro. You meet a couple of Israeli second cousins with whom you have nothing in common, and some friends of Deborah's, before you decide you've had enough. You politely excuse yourself with the very valid point that it's been a whole half hour since anyone saw your dad.

It's still raining outside, and humid as balls, but you find Bro hunched under the overhang around the corner from the door, smoking a cigarette. He must have bummed it off someone—you've never seen him smoke in your life. He stubs it out on the bricks as soon as he sees you.

"Hey," he grunts, inflectionless.

"Yo."

It scares you, that he looks so lost. He always seemed so put-together when you were a kid. Always kept up a brave face. Now you're almost as tall as he is, and the change in perspective has blindsided you in a lot of ways. You've learned a lot about him. You know now that he didn't have a clue what he was doing when he raised you, though he did the best he could. You know he's just as human as you are. And just like you, sometimes the guy needs a hug.

He gives you a funny look when you trudge up to him and wrap your arms around his middle, but it isn't long before he's returning the hug, albeit a little hesitantly.

"I've hated both my parents my entire adult life," he says over your shoulder. His voice is rough.

"Mhmm."

"So... why am I so sad?"

For the fiftieth time, you think about telling him what Rick said about his mother, but you can't bring yourself to do it. Letting him believe she hated him in return is kinder than the truth.

"People die, and that's sad," you shrug. "You're allowed to feel bad about it. In fact, you oughtta be relieved. Means you're not a sociopath."

Bro lets out a dry chuckle. "I guess." He releases you and leans back again, his shoulders impacting heavily against the wall. "And if I still hate Rick? Does it make me a sociopath if I don't forgive him?"

You flounder for a moment. You're unused to seeing him bare-eyed and so open, and unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of life's deep questions, but he's answered yours enough times that you owe it to him to try and return the favor.

You clear your throat, organizing your thoughts. "Bear with me, I'm gonna try to get my inner Rose on here. You, uh... hmm. You don't ever have to forgive him if you don't want to," you venture, on gut instinct. "Just because it worked out for me and Mom, it doesn't mean it'll work for you and Rick. It's sad, and it's hard to give up on a relationship and not feel shitty, especially if it's family. But there's no rule about it. Sometimes these things work out, but sometimes you just have to... let go. Whatever you choose, it ain't gonna make you any less of a cool dude."

There.

Bro chews on your words for a moment, and then he shakes his head. "Like Rick said, we're the only blood relatives he has left. I of all people shouldn't take family for granted, not after..." For a half second he gets that strange, faraway look you see on him sometimes, like he's remembering a past life. Then he blinks rapidly, as if dispelling a dream. "Anyway, it's not as if I never caused Rick any grief. I was an arrogant little shithead when I was a kid, so part of me even wonders whether he... Whether he was justified to cut me off."

Bro sounds like he actually believes what he's saying, like he feels he _deserved_ it, which only makes you angry on his behalf. You take him by the shoulders and force him to meet your eyes.

"Bro. _Dad._ Don't blame yourself for the decisions Rick made a long time ago. Maybe he's changed his mind since then, but he can't take that shit back or pretend it didn't happen. You're not required to just... set it all aside so you can make him feel happy and alleviate his guilt. Don't forgive him unless you want to, alright?"

"Alright," Bro says quietly.

"It's your choice, okay?"

"Okay."

"Rick's managed without you in his life for years and years," you point out, releasing his shoulders to lean against the bricks beside him. "If you decide you can't forgive him, he'll manage without you now. Do what you feel you have to do. Do what's best for _you._ "

Bro says nothing else for a long while. The two of you just stand there and watch the rain as the cars pull out of the lot one by one. Then, when only a few are left, he lets out a long sigh. "Wait here. I'll be back in a bit." He ruffles your hair and disappears around the corner to go back inside.

Like you're really going to wait. You sneak around the building to the back door, and creep through the silent marble hallways until you find them. You lurk just around the corner, where you can hear them and see their reflections in the windows looking out onto the dark gray storm. Bro's reflection has his back to you, but his spine is a taut bowstring, his hands curled into fists. Rick's face is drawn, and you're certain he knows what's coming.

Rick is the first to break the silence.

"Dirk, I know this doesn't cut it, not by a long shot, but I'm sorry. I want you to know that. You didn't deserve to be treated the way I treated you, and I'm sorry."

"Okay, you're sorry," Bro shrugs, following Rick's lead. "What am I supposed to do with that? It doesn't change anything."

Rick looks momentarily stunned, like he can't believe his opening salvo didn't work. "I... I just want you back in my life. You're all I have left. Please, let me in."

"Fuck you; why should I? You've proven over and over that I can't trust you."

"But that was in the past! Haven't I paid enough for my mistakes? Can't you find it in you to forgive me?"

Bro lowers his voice to a clipped, angry murmur you have to strain to hear. "You know what? I just don't care anymore. I don't care about what you did to me, and I don't care about you." Rick flinches. "You want my forgiveness? Fine. You're forgiven. But I will never, ever forgive you for what you _didn't_ do for my son. I was so goddamn scared, Dad," he says, his voice strained almost to the breaking point. "I was eighteen, and alone, and when I _begged_ you for help, you told me to fuck off. Dave might be nothing more than a chip off the old block to you, but he's a good kid, and he deserved to have someone more than just _me_ around when he was growing up. He deserved better. From you."

Your heart jumps in your chest. You've always known where you stand with Bro, and how he feels about you, but it's nice to hear him say it.

"He did deserve better," Rick admits. "But Dirk, please, let me show you that I've changed. Let me make it up to you."

Bro shakes his head angrily, his shoulders quaking with mirthless laughter. "This isn't a couple missed baseball games, Dad. This is my son's life—and mine. You can't just _make it up_." He's right; it doesn't work that way. You'd know.

Rick says nothing. You can see in his face that he knows he's reached the end of the line, that there's nothing more he can do.

"You're not the only one who's changed," Bro continues. "I've changed, too. I had to. And if there's anything I've learned in the past fifteen years, it's that I don't need you."

 _Damn._ You suck in a breath.

"Okay," says Rick quietly, "I get it. It's no more than I deserve." His breath hitches, his fingers clenching and unclenching when Bro doesn't argue on that point. "I guess... well. Goodbye, Dirk."

" _Baruch dayan ha'emet._ " Bro's voice is solemn, and almost regretful. "Goodbye."

And with that, it's over. You let out the breath you'd been holding. That was some heavy fucking shit you just witnessed.

"Dave," Bro calls, and you wince. How long has he known you were eavesdropping? (You cannot hope to defeat Bro in a ninja-off. He's simply the best there is.) He starts off towards the door to the parking lot, and so you hurry after him, casting a glance back at Rick. Rick is watching you, too, and his eyes are red-rimmed.

"Wait!" you call after Bro, and he stops short, spins, and raises an eyebrow. "I don't want to just... Is it okay if I…? I mean, you don't mind, do you?"

Bro somehow understands what you're getting at. "It's up to you, kiddo, if you think he's worth it. Just don't set your hopes too high."

Rick is still standing where Bro left him, his lips pressed together with ill-concealed grief. He squares up when you approach, and eyes you warily. "Hey," you call out to him. "Wanna spend some time together someday? Just you and me, and maybe Rose, when she's in town. Is that cool?"

Rick falters in surprise. "You… you mean, you'd be willing to do that?"

"Sure," you nod, "you're family." But before he can get the impression you've let him off easy, you add, "That doesn't mean you're allowed to be a dick to me or take advantage of our relatedness. You get one chance not to fuck things up, but if you blow it, you blow it. I'll ollie outta there faster than you can say 'fucksticks'. Got it?"

"I got it. And... Dave?"

"Yeah?"

"Dirk is... He's a better father than I ever was. You're a lucky kid."

"I know."

When you rejoin Bro a few minutes later, he wraps an arm around your shoulders and squeezes, letting you know what he either can't or won't say to you aloud.

_I'm proud of you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is with great sadness that I must announce that my updates will be slowing down from hereon out. I still aim to get the last chapters posted before my wedding in three weeks(!), but work is ramping up and I no longer have time to write and edit during the day, plus my evenings are booked solid. Never fear, though! Updates will still be regular, if slower.


	27. Gay Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Sorry for the delay, however I can't promise the next chapter will come any sooner. I'm hoping it will, but it's crunch time both at work and for the wedding!
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: frank discussion of depression, recreational drug use.

\-- May, 2016 -- 

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and for once, you are not feeling as composed as you appear. Dave is studying abroad this year, leaving you to spend your summer break alone with your father in Texas. It's nothing you can't handle; it's simply that you've never been around Dirk for an extended period of time without Dave to act as an interpreter and intermediary. You're not sure how to communicate with him one-on-one. But you know that he will try his best to make you feel welcome and comfortable, and when he meets you in the airport he scoops you up in a hug that you gladly return.

"Hello, Dad," you grin into his chest as your feet leave the floor. At six-two, Dirk is a whole foot taller than you, and you lament the fact that you've stopped growing. Your stupid twin got all the tall genes.

"Hey, sweetness," Dirk replies and sets you down. "Didja have an okay flight?"

"Oh, you know. There was a baby in the row in front of me, and a man with horrible flatulence in the seat to my left. Par for the course."

"Which is why your brother refuses to fly anything but first class these days," Dirk chuckles, and then his smile goes rueful. "It's a shame Dave couldn't be here. He was upset he missed seeing you, you know."

"Yes, well," you shrug sadly. You were hoping to see Dave too, but you're happy for him that he gets to live his film school dream. "I'm sure he's having more fun in Paris than he would have here with us."

"Psh, bullshit," Dirk scoffs. He starts off at a brisk pace toward where his truck is presumably parked, carrying your luggage one-armed as if it weighs nothing. "Little bastard might think he's having fun, but there ain't no company in the so-called City of Love that's better than ours."

"Not unless he pays for it," you agree mildly.

Dirk glances back at you and you snicker as his mouth twists in disgust. "That is an image I could have done without."

Not to mention, if Dave ever did hire a prostitute, his fiancée would hog-tie and castrate him.

Making jokes at your brother's expense is fun and easy conversation. Now, if only you could get away with spending the whole break doing it. Instead, you move on to the weather (dry), your girlfriend Nadia (recently acquired and smoking hot), and how your mother is doing (going wild in her early retirement and decorating her new home with bizarre wizard paraphernalia). You continue to chatter back and forth on the way to his truck, and you are pleasantly surprised to find that it's not as awkward as you'd imagined it might be. You'd always thought Dave had more in common with your father than you did, but in many ways, your personality meshes better with Dirk's than Dave's does. You and Dirk are both far more mellow than Dave. You're both also far more tolerant of silence during conversations, so when you run out of things to talk about, it's more companionable than awkward. It gives you a chance to simply observe. For example, you notice that Dirk has done a more thorough job shaving than he usually does, and he's picked up a substantial tan, presumably from practicing his swordplay on the roof. He's _bored_ without Dave here, you realize.

Dirk and Dave's new apartment complex is closer to the city center than the old one, and so you make it there in short order. (They've been living here for five years or so, ever since Dirk's robotics designs caught the eye of the private sector and he bought the office space to open a small firm. You like it far better than the old place—it has more than one bedroom, for starters.) When you step off the blessedly functional elevator and into the apartment, you're surprised to find that it's cleaner than you've ever seen it. He's _very_ bored.

"I did most of this, but I can't take credit for your brother's room. I made him clean it up for you before he left," Dirk explains.

You bring your bags into the bedroom to see that Dave had, in fact, cleaned it, for a given value of 'clean'. Mostly he'd just shoved his junk under the bed and plugged in a couple air fresheners. "Charming." You'll have to do a better job of organizing things yourself, just so Dave can't find anything when he gets back.

There's just enough room in his closet for your suitcases, and so you dump out your things onto the bed and wheel them in. All Dave's clothes and darkroom supplies are gone. It's strangely sad, seeing the space so empty. You hang all your clothes in their place, which makes you feel a little better.

That done, you start to snoop around Dave's things. Not much has really changed; he's still got his collection of creepy dead things encased in resin, dumb comics taped to the wall, posters for bands you've never heard of, and strings of twine hung with photographs. You tug one string lower to take a closer look. There's a scad of frankly embarrassing selfies, a couple shots of you, some of John, and quite a few of Jade that he'd taken on his trip to Hawaiʻi last year, when they'd gotten engaged—soft focus and dreamy in black and white, with glittering bokeh backgrounds. Dave has always been a talented photographer (and a closet romantic). You imagine he's probably doing well in Paris.

You flop backwards onto the bed and inhale the faint scent of Dave's stupid girly strawberry shampoo, which lingers in the sheets. You're suddenly exhausted from your long day of travel. This is the first time you've made the trip to Houston alone, and anxiety had taken more out of you than you'd realized at first. It's still light out, and yet if you closed your eyes, you know you could fall asleep right now. Maybe you could squeeze in a ten-minute nap…

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you jolt back to wakefulness. Grumbling, you pull it out to see who dares disturb your slumber, only to realize it's Dave. Speak of the devil, and all.

yo get on pesterchum

Far be it from you to pass up a chance to talk to Dave these days. You roll over and pull your laptop out of your bag, and set it up on Dave's desk in front of his monitor. After a quick finger hair combing, you start up Pesterchum, and accept the request for a video chat that immediately pops up. Your twin brother's face fills the screen. He looks good, lightly tanned from walking everywhere, and he's sporting a stylish new undercut. Your nap-deprived crankiness dissolves with a pleased smile—you've missed him. He grins back.

TG: heads up, my sound's off cause my roommate's asleep  
TG: so just chat and video reactions for now  
TG: carson's an even lighter sleeper than bro and he gets super cranky when you wake him up

He tilts his laptop, allowing you a view of a huddled pile of blankets on the bottom bunk bed. A lone brown foot sticks out, twitching every so often.

TT: Noted.  
TT: By the way, good evening, Dave.  
TG: sup sis  
TG: made it in okay?  
TT: Yes, and let me tell you how much I appreciate staying in a room that for once doesn't smell like dirty socks and boy-funk.  
TG: psh boy funk is better than reeking of poison by dior  
TT: Don't make me fart on all your pillows.  
TG: hey be my guest you're the one who has to sleep on them for the next two months  
TT: ...Touché.

The smile has yet to leave your face. Your brother's an asshat, but he's a lovable asshat.

TT: Still enjoying Paris? It's been five months; have you assimilated yet?  
TG: hon hon hon baguette  
TG: what do you think??  
TT: You still haven't picked up any of the language?  
TG: all my classes are in english, so no, not really  
TT: What about your friend? The cackling girl.  
TG: who, thérèse?  
TT: Yes, her. Why not ask her to teach you a few things?  
TG: oh i did  
TG: once

He shudders, jarring his webcam feed.

TT: And?  
TG: never again  
TG: i asked her to tell me how to say 'how much for a ride on the riverboat'  
TG: only then the guy punched me in the goddamn face, cause it turns out what i'd really said was 'how much for a ride on your wife'  
TT: Ooh, ouch.  
TG: i had to keep a bag of frozen peas on my nose for an hour and thérèse giggled the ENTIRE TIME

You wince, and try not to laugh at Dave's indignant pout.

TT: You'll catch on eventually. I was only in Québec for two weeks that one semester, but I learned enough to carry on basic conversations.  
TG: you'd already had like three years of french in school though  
TG: i haven't had any 'cause i always took spanish  
TT: I suppose that's true.

He rolls his eyes skyward in silent exasperation.

TG: dude  
TG: people keep lookin at me weird when i tell them i speak spanish but not french  
TG: its like they're personally insulted that i had a choice of languages in high school and i didn't pick theirs  
TG: i keep telling 'em that's dumb 'cause i'm from TEXAS but then they just roll their eyes at me and say 'yeehaw' or ask me if i've met george bush  
TT: HAVE you met George Bush?

' _Eff you_ ,' he mouths visibly on screen.

TG: anyway yeah  
TG: paris is still pretty dope aside from that  
TG: art, culture, crazy good food  
TG: and oh  
TG: jade's coming in for a week this friday  
TT: Are you going to take her sightseeing?

Dave waggles his eyebrows at you over his shades.

TG: depends on what sights we can see from her hotel window, 'cause i don't plan on leaving the building  
TT: Ugh, gross. Subject change?  
TG: a'ight

Now you just have to think of something else to talk about. Hmm...

TT: Have you thought any more about grad school?  
TG: yeah, i'm going for it  
TG: gonna start putting together my application as soon as i get back to texas  
TG: USC is perfect 'cause jade's looking at caltech  
TG: so if and when she gets in, we can find a place together  
TT: Doesn't USC's graduate film program only admit something like thirty people a year? Are you sure you want to try for someplace that selective?  
TG: what, you don't think i can hack it?

While his senior thesis is far from completed, you've read his first draft of the script. It's alarming and subversive and... brilliant, really. His ego doesn't need stroking, but you can't lie to him.

TT: I think if anybody can hack it, it's you.  
TG: thanks  
TG: means a lot  
TT: Have you told Dad yet?

His smile falters, and he drags a hand through his hair.

TG: nah  
TG: i wasn't sure how he'd react, since it means i'd have to move to cali  
TG: hell, he didn't seem too thrilled when i told him about studying abroad  
TG: and this is only for six months  
TG: i have no idea what he's gonna do when jade and i get married

That's when it occurs to you that Dirk isn't just bored and restless without Dave here—he's _lonely_.

TT: He is happy for you, I promise. I can say that much with confidence.  
TT: He just… misses you.  
TG: yeah

Dave ducks his head and huffs, his breath ruffling his bangs.

TG: tell bro... tell him i miss him too  
TG: can't ever seem to say that to his face  
TT: I will.

Suddenly he perks up a bit, exposed eyes alight.

TG: hey  
TG: d'you think there's any way you could talk to bro about me doing grad school out of state?  
TG: like, sound him out so i got some idea of how he'll react?  
TT: I can try.

You're not exactly thrilled by the idea of playing mediator between family members, but you can already picture how it'd go if Dave were the one to break the news. He'd come in on the defensive, prompting Dirk into passive-aggressive mode, and they'd kill each other before they'd come to a solution, because heaven forfend two or more Striders actually talk their feelings out.

TG: cool  
TG: that's... cool, thanks

He clears his throat.

TG: what about you?  
TG: you decide on someplace yet?

You bite your lip and smile nervously; you maybe sort of directed the conversation this way on purpose.

TT: Actually, I don't think I'm going to apply.  
TG: you mean at columbia, or anywhere?  
TT: Anywhere.  
TG: what?  
TG: why not?  
TT: Well, you remember how I told you I'd finished the first draft of my novel?  
TG: yeah, you sent it to me and i read it  
TG: i told you it was great  
TT: You weren't the only person I sent it to.

His jaw drops, and he mouths, ' _Get the fuck out_.' You have to hide your face for a moment before you work up the nerve to continue.

TT: Just between us—for now, anyway—the agent loved my manuscript, and she's optioning it to several big-name publishers as we speak.  
TT: This time next year, you could be holding Complacency of the Learned book one, published by Tor.  
TG: woah what  
TT: Yep.  
TG: well shtup me in the tuchus and call me hershel  
TG: fucking congrats rose  
TG: seriously, that's huge  
TT: Thank you; I'm rather excited myself. The caveat, of course, is that if it gets accepted, I'll need to spend all my time writing.  
TT: I have a whole seven-novel outline to complete.  
TG: aha  
TG: why bother with grad school when you're already making bank?  
TT: Precisely.  
TG: well it makes sense to me  
TG: i'm sure mom and bro will get it too  
TT: Let's hope so.

You have a good feeling about it. Mom, at least, has never been anything less than annoyingly supportive of anything you chose to do; even that time you grew your hair out and dyed it purple.

Dave yawns hugely, giving you a lovely view of his uvula.

TG: shit i'm tired  
TT: No kidding. It must be, what, two in the morning over there?  
TG: yeah, way too early to be tired  
TG: sleep is for the goddamn weak

He sits up straighter in his desk chair and blinks mulishly. You heave a long suffering sigh—this whole routine grew tiresome years ago.

TG: yeah, yeah, alright  
TG: gotta keep up with my beauty sleep so's i'm purdy enough for jade  
TT: Too bad that'll never happen.  
TG: wow, rude  
TG: i'm telling mom  
TT: Go right ahead, tell her.  
TT: She's been complaining to me that you don't call her enough.  
TT: "How am I supposed to know how my dear, sweet, precious Davy is doing when he only calls me once a week, Rose?"  
TT: "Doesn't he know how lonely I am these days?"  
TT: "He hasn't forgotten me, has he, Rose?"  
TG: wow okay yeah  
TG: i'll... let that one slide  
TT: Breathtaking magnanimity!  
TG: ikr??  
TG: anyway  
TG: catch you later, sis  
TT: Goodnight, Dave.  
TT: Take care.

 

Spending the summer alone with your father turns out to be more fun than you'd imagined, though it takes you a while to find your stride (pun absolutely intended). Even between all the half-summers and holidays you've spent with Dirk, it adds up to less than a year total that you've been around one another. To put it in metaphorical terms, he's a question wrapped inside an enigma and tied off with a Gordian knot of mystery. There are still plenty of things to learn about him, and ample time to do it. 

Dirk seems just as interested in getting to know you better in return. With no Dave around to make things awkward, you have long, caffeine-fueled discussions about queer sexuality and representation in media, the publishing industry, literary erotica, and anime tentacle porn. He's more well-versed in each of those subjects than you might have imagined.

The longer you spend with him, the more certain facets of his personality reveal themselves. He's a decent sketch artist, as you discover when you come across his stash of notebooks, and a competent, if uncertain, singer. He drinks sugary orange soda on the daily; the trade-off is that he works out like a madman. He gets obsessive about finishing work projects, to a degree of perfectionism that keeps him up late most nights and drives his employees to stock the office mini fridge with beer. He's a caretaker. (The problem with that one is that he's also stubborn as hell. If you offer to help with chores, he turns you down. Try to pay for something, and he'll insist until you give in and let him take care of it. The last time you offered to cook him dinner, he'd agreed to let you—if you could beat him at an arm wrestling match. You're fairly certain he could bench press you without breaking a sweat.)

All the while as you study him, you look for an appropriate time to test the waters for Dave's news. Your vigilance pays off—just not in the way you'd expected. Instead of finding an opening, you notice certain things about Dirk that are rather... odd.

 

For example, there's the evening you introduce him to your girlfriend over Pesterchum video chat.

"Dad? This is Nadia Moussaïd. Nadia, Dad." You step away and let Dirk have the computer chair, giddy with the hope that he and Nadia will get along. You _really_ like her.

"Nice to meet you," says Nadia, in her impeccable, Moroccan-accented English. She'd adjusted her perfect coif and reapplied her jade-green lipstick before you'd arranged the video chat. Something about 'wanting to impress'. "Well, nice to make your acquaintance over Skype, as it were."

"Likewise." Dirk leans in and peers closer at the screen. Then, imperceptible to Nadia but obvious to you, something in his expression shifts. For a half-second, it looks like _recognition_ , but that's impossible. He can't know her; she's only been in the States three years, and she's spent all that time at Columbia with you.

So, why is it that he looks like he's seen a ghost?

He wets his lips with his tongue and says, quieter, "It's nice to meet you too." You almost want to pull him aside and ask him what the hell that _meant_ , but he seems to sense your curiosity and forges ahead before you have the chance.

They get along swimmingly, of course (Nadia even tells you he's 'handsome' afterward and asks whether he'd be interested in modeling some of her designs, _before he's out of earshot_ ), but you're not as relieved as you would have hoped. Dirk's reaction still sits uneasily in your mind.

 

Then there's the inexplicable skills he possesses, demonstrated writ large one evening when you sit down beside him to work on the birthday scarf you're knitting for Nadia. 

"What are you working on?" you ask as you pull your supplies from your bag. He's got a tangled mess of wires and circuits in his lap, and a laptop sat in front of him on the coffee table. His fingers are flying over the keys.

"I'm programming this robo-space-drone to recognize human faces and intelligently parse verbal commands," he says absently. "Today's commercial AI software is either too specialized, or it can't handle logic any fuzzier than a fuckin' brick. So I'm kind of... fixing that. Erlang syntax is limited compared to what I'm used to, but I've done it before in other languages. Just gotta back-translate it."

Most of this goes over your head (though you're proud of yourself for at least recognizing that Erlang is a programming language). "Well, it sounds impressive," you offer.

"Meh. I'm developing my own language that'll make this process a hell of a lot easier, but it's not done yet. Erlang's alright for now, though, 'cause it supports hot swapping—meaning you can update the code on the fly, without shutting it down."

"You're saying it can adapt in real time."

"Exactly. If the drone works with the kind of pinpoint accuracy and intelligence I'm going for, I'll be patenting it and optioning it to NASA. It'd be great for making minor mechanical repairs to the ISS or Hubble, or cleaning up space junk. Or hell, I might even sell it to SkaiaNet if the price is right."

Well, then.

Your father has always been a talented man, with raw intelligence on par with that of your double doctorate mother. All the same, his only 9-5 job for almost fifteen years was as an auto mechanic, and raising Dave on the side didn't leave him with a lot of free time. The most complicated thing he'd ever programmed before you'd met was Dave's Frankensteined set of turntables. In seven years, he's not only taught _himself_ applied robotics and AI programming theory; he's started his own firm and revolutionized the entire _industry_. His rise isn't merely meteoric—it's suspicious.

 

The only clue you have to account for his occasional strange behavior and cryptic remarks is a date circled in your old diary: April fourteenth, 2009. 

What happened that day is still a mystery to you.

Something had changed both your parents, albeit in completely opposite ways. Your mother, if she'd been broken before, was fixed. The on-and-off alcoholism that had plagued her for as long as you could remember simply went away. She quit cold turkey, and to your knowledge, she hasn't had a drink ever since. It's as if all the life lessons she'd avoided for so many years hit home all at once, and she learned to be content.

Your father... Well, he'd gotten several more tattoos. Strange symbols whose meaning you've never been able to decipher, and a quote across his collarbone that you recognize from Plato's _Timaeus_. According to Dave, he'd also become more withdrawn. He'd stopped taking so many DJ gigs, citing a newfound dislike for the press of crowds. He'd awaken in the night, and more than once he'd crept into your brother's room and, believing Dave asleep, sat down beside him to run careful fingers through his hair, as if reassuring himself Dave was real.

The strangest thing, though, was your parents' reaction to each other that afternoon of the fourteenth, when Dirk and Dave arrived for the Easter break. The trip had been abrupt—no discussion beforehand, and Dave had been given only thirty minutes to pack for four days. And when your parents saw each other... You remember Mom launching herself over the threshold at Dirk and _kissing_ him, when before they were only nominally friends.

You and Dave have spent hours and hours over Pesterchum trying to determine what had changed them and their relationship so radically, but you've come up utterly blank. Even Dirk's psychiatrist, when Dave tracked her down, was stumped.

It's a mystery you fear you will never solve, and your gut tells you it's part of why Dirk is so reluctant to let Dave go. Sharing Dave's news may be even more complicated than you'd anticipated.

 

Your cell phone rings one late morning when you're still in bed and taking advantage of the summer vacation to sleep in. You peer blearily at the screen. As soon as you recognize the number, your heart begins to race and you fumble the phone in your haste to answer the call. 

"Hello?" you croak in your scratchy, early-morning voice.

"Ms. Lalonde," a woman—your literary agent—replies. "I have some good news."

 

That afternoon, you stroll through the front door of the apartment with a small plastic baggie in hand and announce, "We're going to get blazed." 

Dirk drops his PS4 controller and whirls around to gawk at you. " _What?_ "

"I bought a fat dime from a very nice young man downstairs. Here, for your approval, sir."

You deposit the baggie into his lap and flop down on the couch beside him. He removes a bud, turning it over to examine the crystalline purple-orange kief. He gives it a sniff, and his eyebrows go up. "I know I oughtta be expressing some sort of fatherly consternation right now, but this is some dank-ass shit."

"So I was told. The young man even gave me a discount for my, quote, 'grade-A, premium booty'."

Dirk's mouth twists. "I can't decide whether I want to find this kid and strangle him with his own intestines, or thank him."

"I'm sure you'll want to thank him, when we're done."

He glances over at you, and asks, "How often do you smoke, anyway?"

"This will be my second time. It's sort of... initiation for the writers' club I'm in."

A nigh-indiscernible hint of worry smoothes out of his expression. "No tolerance, then. Of course, it's been twenty years since I got high, so I don't have much of one either. This'll be interesting."

"Do you even remember how to roll a joint?" you goad him.

He rolls his eyes at you. "Oh please, child." You toss him a pack of papers and he pulls one out and flattens it on the coffee table. You watch with interest as he picks the bud apart over the paper, breaking it into fine chunks and flakes, and removes the seeds and stems. "Sticky icky," he remarks, wiping his fingers on his jeans. Then he taps the rolling paper to make sure the bud is evenly distributed, rubs the two sides together to roll the weed, tucks one flap, wraps and licks the other, and twists off the ends in under ten seconds. "Bam. Your spliff, madam."

You take the joint from him and look it over, grudgingly impressed.

Dirk retrieves a lighter from a kitchen drawer and a tall glass of water for each of you. You allow him the first hit, and so he sits down across from you, holds the joint between his lips, and flicks the lighter while inhaling. The pungent scent of pot smoke fills the room.

"How is it?"

"Oh, wow," he proclaims. "Wooooooow." He takes another, bigger hit, and hands it off to you.

You stare apprehensively at the still-smoking joint between your fingers. The last time you partook, you coughed for five minutes straight, and it was miserable and embarrassing. Oh well—here goes. "Sláinte," you say with a facetious toasting motion, and then you inhale. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. You know you're supposed to hold your breath as long as you're able, but it _burns_. You manage to keep it in for a full ten seconds, and then you let out one long, wheezing cough.

Dirk claps his hands. "I'm impressed."

You pass the joint back off to him and greedily pull from your glass of water. It soothes the burning in your throat and chest, and… and… _Woah_. Your hands are tingling.

Dirk sees your wide-eyed expression and chuckles. "One hit wonder?"

"Screw you," you bite back, beginning to smile for some mysterious reason. "Hand it over, Bogart." He takes another couple of swift hits and obliges, and you fall into the routine of puff-puff-pass.

 

Five rounds in, you say casually, "I received some news earlier today." 

"What kind of news?" Dirk asks as he flicks the lighter.

"My novel got accepted by Tor. It'll be released early next year."

Dirk's reaction, surprisingly, is even stronger than Dave's. He chokes on the hit he was taking and hacks ineffectually until he can gulp down some water. "Rose, no shit, that's _incredible_ ," he says hoarsely, as soon as he's able. "I'm fucking stoked for you, seriously."

"I-I," you blush and stammer at the praise, only now beginning to realize that you're going to have to get used to this. You are _awful_ at accepting compliments. "T-thank you."

Dirk quickly follows the revelation through to its logical conclusion, despite his inebriation. "Does that mean you won't be doing grad school?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I hope you're not upset."

"Nah, I understand completely," he says, to your relief. "You were destined to make a name for yourself with your writing. I've always known that."

Interesting. According to Dave, Dirk has never put any stock in religion, despite his upbringing. Frankly, he doesn't seem the type to put stock in _any_ sort of higher power or cosmic synchronicity.

"That's flattering, although I've never believed I was meant for something insofar as I have a 'destiny'," you muse, watching his reaction. "I believe in free will, not fate."

He chuckles again, drily this time, like he knows something you don't. "It's funny that you of all people should say that."

"Why's that?" you ask with narrowed eyes.

"No reason. Forgive your old man his eccentricities."

"Old?" you smirk. "You're not even forty."

He grimaces. "Yes, thanks for reminding me I have that to look forward to."

Dirk passes you the rapidly dwindling joint and you take a long, deep hit, considering your next words. "So you're saying you do believe in fate."

"When you've experienced what I've experienced," he shrugs, "you begin to see chance for what it really is—serendipity."

You snort with disbelief, twin plumes of smoke streaming from your nostrils. _Serendipity?_  And this from the most relentlessly logical person you know. "Okay, give me an example. What has happened in real life that you'd call 'fate'."

"Easy. If you and Dave hadn't both ended up tutoring John, you never would have met."

He's got you there. "I suppose that's the obvious answer. What else?"

"You and Nadia," he says, and jerks his chin in a northerly direction. "That's fate."

 _What?_ Your eyes widen. "What does that mean?"

He pantomimes zipping his lips. "Causal spoilers. You'll see."

You stare hard at him, attempting to glean from the precise arrangement of his facial features exactly what his game is. It lasts a mere five seconds, and then his serious expression cracks.

"I'm high as fuck, Rose; you can't expect me to make sense."

It feels like an awfully convenient evasion, but you decide to let it go, for the sake of your sanity.

 

Eight hits in and down to the roach, your skin is tingling pleasantly, and it's all you can do to remember the reason you got high in the first place. You have a mission—you owe it to your brother to see it through. 

You turn to Dirk, and after taking a sip off your water to drag your head back down from the stratosphere, you ask, "Have you ever thought about moving in with Mom?"

Beat, and then he bursts into stoned man-giggles. "Why the hell would I do that?" He's taking this far less seriously than you'd hoped. However, you're prepared.

"Let's see. You work in similar fields, you have plenty of overlapping interests, you have children together, and you get along spectacularly, ever since that day you just _decided_ to be best friends."

He blinks at you with reddened eyes, and his smile falls away. "I see you've thought this out pretty thoroughly, and those are all very valid reasons you laid down. But I can't just up and leave. Not when I have so much going on for me here."  He settles deeper into the cushions, as if he could put down roots in them if he tried.

This may be tougher than you thought. Maybe you should take a more blunt approach. "What exactly _do_ you have holding you here?" you ask. "You could pack up your business and move it anywhere, anytime. So what's left? Dave? He's in Paris."

"Yeah, but he'll come back."

"Only for one semester before he graduates. And then what? He can't stay here in Texas for his masters; he's too good for that. And what about when he gets married?"

Dirk flinches (shit, maybe you pushed too hard), and the lines of his shoulders go slack. "You're right. You're absolutely right." Lovely, now you feel like a heel.

"You've spent your whole adult life taking care of Dave, but he's not here anymore," you say, gentler. "He doesn't need you like he did back then."

"I know," he says bitterly. "You don't have to remind me."

"Dave growing up isn't a bad thing."

"Well of course not, but–" Dirk's eyes widen by a fraction, then flick over to the still-smoldering joint and back. He's starting to catch on to your plan. "Heh. Plying me with weed; that's clever. In green-o, veritas." He looks amused, rather than offended. "So, you think you got me all figured out?" 

"I... I can make an educated guess."

"Go ahead, then." He slides into a reclining position and kicks his feet up in your lap. "Psychoanalyze away, doc."

Your heart speeds, and you take a small sip of water before beginning, considerably less secure in your assessment than you were a moment ago. "It's easiest for you to feel happy when you are useful—that is, when you're caring for or protecting someone. For so many years, Dave _was_ your life. Now that he's grown and moving on, you don't know what to do without him. You feel as if you no longer have a purpose. That's why you've spent so much time training, and throwing yourself into your work."

"Not quite," he huffs drily—you are disappointed, but unsurprised. "You got the bit about feeling useful right, but the big picture's a lot more selfish than that."

"What do you mean by that?"

He breathes deeply, gathering this thoughts, and turns away from you. "I'm happy for Dave, and on most levels, I'm ecstatic to see him growing up and learning and moving out on his own. I _will_ miss him, don't get me wrong, but that's parenthood. On a deeper level, I'm terrified because it means I'll be alone again. I've suffered from depression off and on my entire life. At this point, I've accepted that it's something I will have to contend with till the day I die. But I have always had the strength of will to set aside my own misery when other people needed me. I couldn't have raised Dave otherwise. The problem is, that was only a temporary coping mechanism. Now that he doesn't need me anymore, now that I'm left with only _myself_ , suddenly I'm face to face with all the issues I've been repressing for twenty years, and I'll be honest," he laughs mirthlessly, "I'm pretty fuckin' overwhelmed. I have to actually _deal_ with my shit, and medication and light therapy just aren't cutting it anymore. I love you, Rose, and I know you'd like to help, but you're just not equipped for it. There is no magic bullet, no one single thing you can say that'll spontaneously resolve a lifetime's worth of issues."

You shake your head. "I'm not trying to fix you, Dad. You _can't_ just 'fix' people. I used to think you could, when I was younger. I played at being a therapist—too far up my own ass to realize I had my own issues—and frankly, I was pretty insufferable." Looking back at your teen years, you're surprised your friends are still your friends.

Dirk lets out a dry little bark of laughter. "You're my daughter alright."

"Trying to 'fix' you would be pointless and patronizing at best, and damaging at worst. I suppose the whole point of this is... I just want you to know that you don't have to be alone. Not if you don't want to be. Dave and I may be moving on, but you don't have to be alone."

"Roxy, you mean."

"Yes."

He chews thoughtfully on his labret. "Have you even talked to her about this?"

"No," you admit, "but you know she'd move in with you in a heartbeat."

"...Maybe." He looks mutinous even as he agrees with you, and now you're beginning to understand.

"How much of your solitude is self-imposed? How much of it is that you're convinced you don't deserve to have good things?"

He inhales sharply, and you know you're on the right track. It gives you the confidence to try again.

"You're self-aware on a level that most people aren't. You are intimately familiar with your own shortcomings and weaknesses, and yet you're unwilling to accept support from others in addressing them. Perhaps you're afraid people will let you down. Perhaps you're even unable to recognize an opportunity for that support when it arises."

"Roxy could never let me down," he says, adamant. "She never has. Not once."

"Because she _loves_ you, and nothing would make her happier than the ability to be there for you when you need her." Dirk finally looks your way, and it hurts your heart to see him so lost, so baffled by the idea of allowing himself to be weak sometimes, of relying on others for support. "Dad, when was the last time you let someone take care of _you?_ Do you even know how?"

He looks away again, his gaze settling on an arrangement of family photos on the wall that Dave had framed and put up a couple years ago. They're mostly pictures of Dave and Dirk, with a few of yourself and Mom for spice. No one else. "I haven't had a lot of practice," Dirk says quietly. "There was never really anybody around to... to do that kind of thing."

You scoot closer to Dirk, who watches you askance with a wary eye. He tenses at first when you snake your arm around him for a side-hug, but after a moment he slowly relaxes, as if he's only just remembering how. "Put the world down, Atlas," you smile. "Your shoulders could use the break."

He lets out a shuddering breath. "Okay... Okay."

 

You end up rolling and smoking a second joint with what's left of the weed—the fuzziness is a welcome reprieve from the gravity of your prior conversation. Dirk digs his controller out the couch cushions and continues where he left off in _Child of Light_ ("I'm a princess and I can fucking fly; what other excuse do I need to play this game?"), and you watch, pleasantly stoned. 

Around mid afternoon, the skies outside open up in a brief, heavy shower, and you fall asleep to the sound. You wake up at five, your high diminished by now to almost nothing. Dirk is still playing his game, but now the TV is the only light in the room, and there's a blanket tucked over your shoulders that wasn't there before. It makes you smile to yourself.

Your phone buzzes, and you blink sleepily at it until the blur on screen resolves into words.

"Hrm," you murmur, and Dirk glances over. "Dave just texted me to tell me he's having dinner tomorrow with Jade at Le Meurice, across the street from the Tuileries. He made a special point to inform me it has not one, but _three_ Michelin stars."

"Wow, what an asshole."

"Hear, hear."

Dirk pauses the game in the middle of a battle. "Wait, Rose. Roselyn. _Rosierosierose_."

You giggle—okay, maybe you're not _quite_ the picture of sobriety yet. "...Yes?"

"Idea," he says simply. His eyes are bright, alight with pleasure at his own genius. He waits, fidgeting with excitement, and glances at you expectantly. It is _so_ Dave (or rather, you can see where Dave gets it from).

"Oh?" you smile, playing along. "What kind of idea?"

"Did you happen to bring a nice dress?"

And that is how the two of you find yourselves standing in front of Le Réveillon: Fine French Bistrot. It's dusk, and the streetlamps have just come on, painting the two of you in a diffuse sodium glow. There is a small sign on the window, and you lean in close to read it.

"Le Réveillon enforces a strict 'business formal' dress code policy to ensure the comfort and enjoyment of its patrons. Gentlemen are encouraged to wear jackets and ties, and must, at minimum, wear collared shirts. Ladies may not wear dresses that end above the knee, backless dresses, or halter-tops. Sneakers, shorts, blue jeans, and t-shirts are not appropriate attire. We appreciate your understanding in this matter."

You straighten up and cast a glance at your father's crisp maroon shirt, which, for some reason unbeknownst to you, he has paired with an obnoxiously orange tie and matching belt. (At least he's foregone the shades and temporarily removed his facial piercings.) Your bruise-purple spaghetti strap dress falls to just below your kneecaps, if you're standing. Well, by the _letter_ of the law, if not the spirit...

"Perfect," Dirk declares. "Shall we?" He holds his arm out with a wicked grin, and you take it.

"Let's have some fun."

When you walk in the door, you're greeted by a maître d' with a ludicrously curly mustache, dressed in an impeccable tailcoat.

"Bonsoir, monsieur et mademoiselle," he says with a bow. "Bienvenue à Le Réveillon. Table for two?" His false French accent is surprisingly passable, for a Texas establishment.

"Yes, please," you reply, and the maître d' leads you into the restaurant. It truly is a classy affair, with dim chandelier lighting and real candles and a shiny black grand piano tucked in the corner. (Sadly, no one is playing it. If there were someone, you'd request some goddamn Billy Joel.)

The maître d' leads you to a small round table near one of the walls, and pulls out your chair for you. You sit and thank him, and then unroll your silverware to place your napkin on your lap. Dirk is still standing. You and the maître d'share a confused glance, until Dirk gestures at his chair and pointedly clears his throat. The maître d' gasps and rushes around the table to pull out Dirk's chair as well.

 _It begins_.

"Is it a date night tonight?" the mustachioed man asks as he lights the candle between you, eager to appear friendly after his 'misstep'.

Both you and Dirk stop short. He can pass for being thirty or so when he shaves, and you for maybe twenty-five, but you look so alike that no one has ever misidentified you as anything other than siblings. By the time you've recovered from the shock, you're on the verge of laughter, but Dirk scoots out of his chair again, draws himself up to his full (considerable) height and hisses, "She's not my date, you pervert, she's my _daughter!_ " He says it with such utter affront that the maître d' squeaks and scuttles away, too frightened to even correct his mistake. By the time the poor man has made it back to the front of the restaurant, Dirk's back in his chair and you're both snickering behind your hands. Oh, you're bad people.

The sommelier is next in the humiliation conga, though Dirk spares him the level of embarrassment the maître d' suffered. He allows the man to pour him a selection of wines to sample, smacks his lips and comments on the bouquet of each... and then proceeds to order a Bud Light. The sommelier shrugs it off as a lost cause and hands the order off. You quite liked the taste of the Malbec, but as your twenty-first birthday isn't for several months, you settle for a Perrier.

Next, the waiter comes around to take your orders. (If there's a hierarchy of ludicrous mustaches in this place, then your waiter takes home the Salvador Dali blue ribbon prize. Seriously, it's freakish.)

"May I interest eezer of you in any appetizers, or any of our specials?"

Wow, this guy's really laying it on thick. Where the maître d's French accent had been decent, the waiter's is so over the top and awful that even Dirk raises an eyebrow.

"Er, that's okay," you reply. "We looked at the online menu and decided on our orders in advance."

"Een zat case, what would monsieur like?" says the waiter with a little simper, bowing in Dirk's direction.

Oh. Oh god, he's in for it now.

Dirk straightens in his chair, and then honks in the loudest, thickest accent he can, "Ah would lahk the chicken kawurd-owun bleh-oo."

Someone at another table drops a fork. The waiter is so startled that he fumbles his notepad. You, however, award Dirk points in your head for somehow managing to stretch 'cordon' into four syllables.

"Yes sir, of course," the waiter recovers, accent noticeably diminished. "The... chicken cordon bleu. And for you, mademoiselle?"

You smile evilly. "Je voudrais des escargots, légèrement frits, avec une sauce au raifort, et un côte de champignons sautés."

The waiter is obviously unprepared to hear actual French, and he struggles to jot down your order. You highly doubt he got it all correct, but he musters a brave "Of course, right away" nonetheless.

As he makes his way back to the kitchen, Dirk calls after him, "Oh, and some of that cremmy-brooly stuff for dessert, ya hear?" and he visibly cringes.

You give Dirk a fistbump behind the tablecloth.

From then on, you decide to play it safe. Both you and Dirk are the picture of well-mannered, mature adults (if for no other reason than your food is currently being prepared, and you'd rather not have loogies in your escargot). You have a delightful conversation about the publishing process, and where you plan to take _Complacency_ in the future. Spoiler-free, of course, though Dirk seems to have an uncanny knack for guessing at potential plot paths anyway. Dirk laughs like you haven't seen him do since you arrived for the summer, relaxed and engaged and happy. You're not so self-important as to think it's all thanks to you, and yet your insides are toasty with the warm, fuzzy thought that maybe, just maybe, you may have helped in some small way.

To your surprise, when the waiter brings your orders out, they're exactly to spec. You will admit you are impressed. The waiter hangs by your table until after you've taken your first bites, and even if it would have been hilarious, you have nothing negative to say about the food. It's perfect. If there's saliva in it, well, it's high quality stuff.

You've finished the 'cremmy-brooly' and are fighting over the check when the waiter comes back with another plate, heaping with hot bread pudding.

"What's this?" Dirk asks.

"An extra dessert, compliments of the maître d'."

You feel a little guilty, but not so guilty that you won't eat the fuck out of this free bread pudding.

(Dirk wins and pays the bill when you're not looking, but you let it slide, on account of you get more of the bread pudding.)

On the way out, you nod your thanks to the maître d', who smiles uneasily. Dirk _curtseys_.

 

"That was a lot of fun," Dirk says as you venture back out into the warm summer night. "Thanks. You know, for making it possible." 

"Of course."

He starts the truck when you climb in the cab and puts on a Nick Drake album he knows you both like, blasting the A/C to combat the sweltering heat, but he lets the truck sit idle. You cast him a curious glance. He's leaned back in his seat and running his fingers along the exposed Gemini tattoo on his inner wrist.

"Sometimes I feel like Artax in the fuckin' Swamp of Sadness, up to my neck in the muck," he says quietly, and you call the scene to mind, "but I haven't given up yet. And I won't give up. Not as long as I've got people who care about me and want me around." He inclines his head toward you and smiles. "And hey, about moving in with your mom? I'll think about it."

Affection blossoms in your chest, warm and deep. "Love you, Dad," you grin.

Dirk hooks you in for a one-armed hug and smoothes his free hand over your hair. "Love you too, baby girl."


	28. Reach Out (I'll Be There)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return! Sorry for the delay. Still hoping to get the rest of the fic posted in the next two weeks, however I still have that one last scene to write for the next chapter. That will unfortunately hold me up before I get it done.
> 
> In the mean time, I hope you enjoy this one.
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: major (canon) character death, mentions of BDSM, mentions of drug abuse.
> 
> Suggested listening: Four Tops' ["Reach Out (I'll Be There)"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KnDm3qr1Knk)

\-- April-August, 2017 --

"Oh my god, you are the worst packer in the world! Did you just cram everything in here and hope it wouldn't break?"

"Basically," Dirk shrugs and twirls the knife he's been using to cut packing tape around his finger—and it's your good paring knife, too, from the set you'd asked him not to use.

Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you're already regretting your decision to share your home with this... this _man_.

"Give me that." You snatch the paring knife from his hand and replace it with the box cutter you'd been using. "A paring knife is for vegetables, you cretin. You're gonna get tape gunk all over it."

He holds up the box cutter and examines the edge, which is admittedly pretty ragged. "You sure I can't use the santoku? I mean, how often do _you_ use it?"

"Never, but that's not the point! The point is, you can't use my good knives to cut tape."

"A'ight." He flicks the box cutter shut, drops it in his back pocket, then bends down and proceeds to rip open the next box with his bare hands.

Your mouth drops open. "Why do you want a knife at all, if you can just hulk out and open them that way?"

"'Cause then I get tape gunk all over my hands."

"You're fucking impossible, you know that?"

You catch a telltale hint of a smile. "Yeah, I know."

 

Unpacking Dirk turns out to be a weeks-long affair. It's not like he has all that much crap this time around (for which you are very thankful—you've _seen_ teenage Dirk's apartment); it's that what he does have is so interesting you have to stop and play with it all.

"What is this?" you ask, holding up what appears to be a cube of cameras on a stick.

"It's a 360-degree GoPro mount for filming. If you stitch the video and feed it into an Oculus Rift," he points to a sleek black headset, "it's like you're actually there. You can look around in any direction."

"That's the 3D VR thing, right? Sounds cool as shit."

"It is. You should try it out sometime. We can play _Portal 2_ with it if you want."

"Fuck yeah, I knew there was a reason I agreed to let you move in."

Video games are only the beginning. He loads your spacious garage and attached shop with machine parts and robotics innards, and adds his computer equipment to your already impressive setup. With your TV and his speaker system, you have an entertainment room you could charge admission to experience. He lets you play with his toys, and you naturally use his 3D printer to make a bunch of highly detailed plastic dicks. You let him play with yours, and one day you discover the dispenser on the front of the fridge now has an orange soda setting, and the hot water heater lasts fifty percent longer. Clearly this is a mutually beneficial arrangement.

You fill every available inch of mantel space with pictures of the kids, Dirk covering the gaps where you have no photos of Dave, and vice-versa. You make sure to put the most embarrassing ones front and center. When Rose drives up that Saturday to help unpack, she scowls when she sees them and turns all the photos of her face-down.

Dirk hangs his Mech-E bachelor's degree from Rice right next to your CompSci degree from Stanford. There's a blank space where his master's will go, when he's finished at Cornell next summer. Between the two of you and the kids, you're gonna end up with more degrees than a protractor.

More books than a library, too. Dirk's books are a hodgepodge of Chilton manuals, philosophical treatises, sci-fi paperbacks, and robotics textbooks (most of which he bought, two of which he wrote). They fit nicely with your library of programming and aerospace tomes, as well as your burgeoning collection of trashy romance novels. The centerpiece of your bookshelf is a signed first-edition of _Complacency of the Learned_ Book One—the first copy off the press. The handwritten dedication reads, ' _To Mom & Dad: I love you, you assholes._'

Finally, two weeks after you started, the last box is unpacked, the meshing of your existences complete.

"We really fucked up the order of operations on this one," you muse over celebratory ice cream that night. "Sleep together, have kids, _then_ introduce ourselves, become friends, and move in?"

"Yeah. Though honestly, we should've shacked up together years ago," Dirk admits.

He yodels in his hour-long showers, he hangs his used bath towels off the furniture to dry, you've nearly fallen in the toilet twice this week after he left the seat up, and you haven't had this much fun in a long, long time.

"I agree."

 

Living with Dirk is easier than you might have expected. He keeps you from going stir-crazy with loneliness, and you make sure he takes care of himself and goes to therapy—standard moirail fare—but he's also just fun to be around. You can work on your coding while he fiddles with his latest design in the same room, and neither of you has to speak. It's just... _pleasant_. When you need alone time, though, you each have your own spaces. Sometimes you retreat to your mini-lab, and Dirk will spend long hours at the office, or hole up in the shop or in the workout room, and that's fine too. You have separate bedrooms, although there's a fifty-fifty chance on any given night that you're cuddled up together in one bed or the other.

Sometimes, when you're stressed and lonely and aching for physical contact, you have sex. Dirk always seems to know when you need it. He'll knock at your door, let himself in, and wordlessly crawl under the covers with you. He spends the first hour just touching you. He'll stroke your skin, massage your scalp, plant kisses all over your body... everything to make you feel loved and appreciated. He's very, very good at it. Then he'll move south and touch you other places. Even into your forties, you still get wet for him at the drop of a hat, so it doesn't take much to get you ready to go.

The sex is different every time. When you're sad, it's slow and gentle, comforting; when you're stressed, it's rougher, leaving you lax and pleasantly drained.

You don't bother with protection beyond timing it, because Dirk never gets off. When you ask him about it, he always says, "I didn't do it for me." But then, every few weeks or so, he kisses you on the cheek and disappears for a night.

You know where he's going. Hasan.

Dirk had met him a month or two after moving here, on a forum for local BDSM enthusiasts. Hasan is a pro Dom who runs a neat little dungeon in his basement. He normally charges his clients, and he doesn't have sex with them. He's made an exception for Dirk on both counts.

Hasan remembers the Game.

According to Dirk, the first time he'd gone to him for a scene, Hasan had stripped him of his shirt, revealing carefully inked depictions of Sburb aspect symbols: Light, Time, Heart, and Void. A memorial turned shibboleth. Hasan had run his fingers over the symbol for Void, and then he'd backed up to the far wall, shaking and sweating.

In another life, Hasan had been the troll Horuss, the descendant-slash-ancestor of Equius. Growing up, he'd spent years trawling otherkin Usenet newsgroups looking for someone, _anyone_ else who felt the same dysphoria he did. For him, April 2009 was a confirmation of what he had suspected his entire life: that he wasn't human, but something else.

Now, he and Dirk have some sort of quasi-caliginous, mutually beneficial arrangement. Dirk will brutally logic Hasan through his nightmares and his hang-ups, and smack him around a bit if necessary. What Hasan does for Dirk in return... Well. Sometimes a dude just needs to get fucked—carefully, methodically, _relentlessly_ , until all his defenses come down like the fuckin' walls of Jericho and he's disassembled to his base components—and then be shooshpapped back out of subspace so he can put himself together again, a little stronger than before. Dirk's words.

The shooshpapping aftercare bit is your job, because Hasan was loath to impinge on your moirallegiance. You take your duties very seriously. Dirk is never quite himself when he comes back from Hasan's, but by the time you're done with him, he's loose and pliant and orders of magnitude more relaxed than before he left.

So in the end, you both get what you need, and you settle quickly into a peaceful, and—dare you say it— _happy_ existence.

\--

Late that summer, you get a call from Dave.

"Mom?" He sounds as if he's upset and trying to hide it.

"Hi, Davy. What's the matter?"

"I know you only met Jade's grandpa two or three times, but I thought you should know that he passed away in his sleep last night. I just got off the phone with Jade. She's pretty distraught, so I'm gonna catch a flight to Oahu and... y'know, be there with her for the funeral this Saturday. If you and Bro could just send some flowers or something, I'm sure she'd really appreciate it. If you want the name of the funeral home, it's..."

And presumably he rattles off the specifics, but you're not listening anymore. You sit down hard on the kitchen chair, and press the phone's mute button so Dave can't hear you. "Dirk," you call, though your voice comes out far too faint to carry to where he's working in the garage. You close your eyes and swallow. " _Dirk!_ "

You hear the clang of a wrench being dropped, and then he's crouched by your side, a hand on your shoulder. "What's wrong, Rox?"

His form is blurry and watery when you open your eyes again. "It's Jake," you say quietly. "He's... he's dead."

Dirk rocks back on his heels and exhales slowly, his expression unreadable. "Peacefully?" he whispers.

"In his sleep."

He sags against you and rests his head in your lap, his stubble prickling your thighs. His eyes are shut tight like he's trying hard not to cry, but it's a losing battle. His eyelashes are wet.

"Mom, you there?" comes Dave's slightly staticky voice.

You take the phone off mute. "Yeah, sweetie, still here."

"I'll email you the info too, so you have it in writing. Anyway, I gotta start packing if I want to make my flight. Love you, Mom. Tell Bro I said hi."

"I love you too, Dave." You hang up and numbly set the phone down on the table. " _Shit._ "

Dirk lifts his head from your lap, his mouth set in a line. "You don't want to go to the funeral?"

"We weren't invited, Dirky. Jade and the rest of the public only know us as Dave and Rose's parents, not Jake's best friends. I think it's better if we stay here. Remember him our own way."

"Fine," he says, with none of his usual sangfroid, and stands. His hands are curled into fists. "I'm... I'm gonna go."

You want to hold on to him and beg him to stay, but you know he needs this. He'll come back when he's ready. "Okay."

He walks stiffly back out the door to the garage, and it's when he gets this mechanical that you know he's on the verge of an emotional eruption. Five, four, three… You jump at the sudden jarring metallic clatter of him kicking his tool chest. " _FUUUCK!_ " There it is.

His bike roars to life, and the garage door has barely opened enough to give him adequate clearance before he peels out and down the street, sans helmet. You hope Hasan is ready for him.

 

Everyone deals with grief in their own way. While Dirk has it hammered out of him, you distract yourself by slipping in your earbuds and jogging through the woods until your lungs scream for air and your legs can barely carry you. You blast Depeche Mode at full volume and try not to remember what it was like when you realized Janey was dead, or how it felt when Jake hung up on you forever.

' _This is what I want, chums. Please, let me go._ '

In a fucked-up kind of way, Jake cutting the two of you out of his life had preemptively softened the blow of his death. You'd already lost him once.

Your pedometer clocks you at having run three miles by the time you stagger through the back door. You're sweaty and exhausted and wheezing like an asthmatic pug, but you feel better. A little. You strip off the clothes sticking to you like a second skin, turn the shower up as hot as it'll go, and step inside, content to simply stand there with your forehead pressed against the cool tiles.

You wish Dirk were here.

Your relationship has always been symbiotic in nature, even during your first lives, when you'd met on a forum for D&D enthusiasts. You were interning for SkaiaNet then, as you had in this life, and he'd been this scrawny little foster kid with a heroin problem, and you couldn't _not_ take care of him. You'd helped him get clean. In return, he'd convinced you it was worth the struggle to stick it out at SkaiaNet. Neither of you would be the people you are without the other. Not in any universe.

Speak of the devil, the rumble of the garage door and Dirk's motorcycle vibrate up through the floor. You let out a sigh of relief. After a moment the shower door opens again and Dirk slips in wordlessly behind you. He tucks his chin over the crown of your head, and for five minutes you do nothing more than hold each other so tightly that the water sluicing over your bodies never comes between you. Then, slow as molasses, he unwraps himself from you to begin washing your hair. His broad hands massage the shampoo all the way down to your scalp and you sway in place as your body unwinds. After you've washed out the shampoo, you return the favor. Dirk even cracks a smile, when you sculpt his sudsy hair into the spiky quiff he wore as a teenager. When you finally step out, thirty minutes later (a steamy eternity for you but a quick rinse for Dirk), he allows you to sit him down and very, very carefully shave the stubble from his jaw. You hand him your comb in return, and he untangles the snarls from your damp hair. It's all so intensely pale that it'd make a troll blush—and it's exactly what you needed.

"Movie marathon?" he asks once you're dressed and dry.

"That sounds nice."

You use your l33t h4xx0r skills to pirate several movies you'd never be caught dead actually purchasing: _Weekend at Bernie's_ 1 and 2, _Tomb Raider_ , _Waterworld_ , and the cherry on top the shit sundae, _Avatar_. Dirk, meanwhile, arranges the buttered popcorn and the snuggies. You don't question why a grown man owns multiple snuggies, because snuggies are the fucking _shit_ , son. You settle down at one end of the couch and curl your legs up under your soft, flannel tent. This one had originally belonged to Dave, which explains the faint traces of Dorito cheese dust on the ends of the sleeves. Wearing it is kind of like getting a warm, fuzzy hug from him, even though he's thousands of miles away. You sniffle. God, you miss your kids sometimes.

Dirk sets down a giant bowl of at least three bags of popcorn and splays across the other half of the couch. His snuggie is a particularly pukey shade of burnt orange. "You ready for this?" he asks.

"As I'll ever be. Let's do it."

You made a good choice, picking the two _Weekend at Bernie's_ films to watch first. You'd told yourself beforehand that this would be a solemn affair, a quiet remembrance of what made Jake Jake. Terry Kiser has other plans for you. You chuckle all through the first movie, especially at the water skiing scene. By the second movie, when Kiser starts flopping around in that loose-limbed, straight-faced shuffle, you're laughing so hard you're crying—and then you're _really_ crying, and Dirk pulls you into his besnuggied embrace.

"This is the worst movie I've ever seen in my entire life," you sob, "and yet all I can think is that I'd watch it a thousand times if I could watch it with Jake, and hear him laugh again."

"I'm right there with you, Rox," Dirk agrees hoarsely.

You can still hear it in your head, that full-throated guffaw Jake would let out at the slightest amusement, usually paired with a hearty slap to the back of whomever was standing closest. His indomitable spirit had been exactly what the rest of you needed sometimes, when the stresses of the Game uprooting your reality got too much to bear. As for Dirk... You're not sure you'll ever truly understand the nature of his and Jake's relationship. But you can feel him shuddering against you and you know that despite everything, Dirk's never stopped loving him.

"I'll be okay," he says, as if he's trying to convince himself. "We'll be okay."

You choose to believe him.

"Yeah... We will."

\--

_ From: jharley143@caltech.edu _  
_ To: roxanne.lalonde@skaia.net; das78@cornell.edu  
Subject: thank you_

_ dear roxy and mr strider_

_i just wanted to tell you how very much the flowers you sent for grandpas funeral meant to me. im not sure how you knew that tiger lilies were his favorites, but i know he would have loved them!! even though he spent the last few years of his life being a crotchety old recluse, he always said that the two of you were true friends to him. i thought you should know that. _

_ anyway, thanks again for thinking of us, and thank you for making dave to be there for me when i need him most. _

_ all the best  
jade _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> I know I've skirted into territory a lot of people don't like by going the 'rails with pails route, and while I don't really feel the need to justify myself unprovoked, I do hope I haven't offended anybody. I personally believe that sex isn't always romantic, and can serve as a method of stress relief in the same way masturbation can. As for the issue of Dirk's sexuality, I feel that he's definitely homoromantic, but there are just enough latent bisexual urges in him that he can be attracted to Roxy when he wants to be. Though he doesn't get off, it definitely isn't torture for him, either, and it doesn't make him uncomfortable. Concrete consent from both parties!
> 
> The next chapter should be up... *looks at watch* ...before the end of Homestuck, anyway! Hopefully within the week, if I can get this writer's block out of the way.


	29. Knot-Tying for Non-Scouts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am SO sorry that took so long! Turns out weddings are kind of a big deal! I way overestimated the amount of free time I'd have leading up to the event. However I am happy to say that it all paid off! It was the very best wedding I've ever been to... although I may be biased. ;) Husband and I had a fantastic time on our honeymoon (we went to Disney and Universal in Orlando), and now I'm back home and finally ready to finish posting this fic!
> 
> One complication that arose when I was trying to finish this chapter is that I got writer's block on one specific scene. Eventually, it felt like pulling teeth, leading me to cut the scene in the end. While it was ultimately unnecessary in the larger context of the fic, some fun things did happen, and I've put the snippets together in the end notes, if you'd like to read them.
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.
> 
> And now, here comes the bride.

\-- February, 2018 --

"Dude, I don't care how pristine your '85 Air Jordans are; you can't wear them to my goddamn wedding. For one thing, Jade'd kill me."

"But they're mint condition," Bro argues. "You don't understand. _Mint_ , Dave."

"I understand you're a man-child." You ignore his gasp of mock affront and go back to straightening your tie. You never could get a four-in-hand to come out right on the first try.

"Man-child? Fuck that. I pay bills and shit, and that makes me a motherfuckin' _adult_. Not to mention I raised your ungrateful ass."

"Blah blah, changing diapers, college fund, blah blah," you cut in before he can get on a roll. "Take it up with Jade if you want to wear the shoes that bad."

Predictably, he just shrugs and says, "Nah."

 _Siiiiiiiigh_.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you're getting married tomorrow.

"What are you even doing in here?" you ask, and you pull the knot apart, opting to re-tie it from square one.

"Just some last-minute father-son bonding time, before I have to give you away," Bro says, only half facetious.

You let out another long, loud sigh. Guess you can't be annoyed at him for that. "Do you at least know what to do at the dinner?"

"Of course I do. Meet and greet, eat delicious food, and then embarrass the shit out of you during my toast."

You accidentally yank too hard, and the whole knot goes lopsided. "Oh christ," you mutter as you're assailed by visions—not of sugarplums, but of wildly inappropriate metaphors and spontaneous rapping and Jade deciding it's safer not to marry into your family after all.

"Untwist your knickers, lil' man; I can do restraint."

"I'll believe that when I see it," you mutter and glare at him. You have no problem meeting his eye, and it occurs to you that you're very nearly of a height. When did that happen?

"Hey stop it. Stop growing up," he says fondly, reading your mind. "You're too damn young to be getting married."

Wow, hypocrisy much. "Too young? Dude, when _you_ were twenty-two, I was already four. If you can have a four-year-old kid, I can sure as hell get married."

"You're really gonna use my life as a benchmark?" He shakes his head and tsks. "Pretty low bar, kiddo."

Aww, now you feel bad. "Not that low," you say and shoulder-check him. No matter what you or anyone else says about him, you have nothing but respect for Bro. You can't even imagine the strength it must have taken to raise you on his own.

He shoulder-checks you back and smiles. "I am so fucking proud of you, Dave. You know that, right?"

Oh god. Your cheeks go red, and the tips of your ears heat up. "Lay off it, Bro, I'm not a little kid anymore. You don't have to say shit like that."

He moves to ruffle your hair, thinks twice (as it's carefully styled and full of gel), and squeezes your shoulder instead. "You may not be little anymore, but you're still my kid. And I will never stop being proud of you."

You stare at his reflection in the mirror and he's still smiling at you, and it looks so strange, but so good on him. Your shriveled ice cube of a heart thaws a little in your chest. "I… Thank you."

"Anyway, I'm gonna go get dressed," he says. "See you in a few."

The minute Bro leaves the room, your hand falls from your tie, and you swallow hard.

Be cool, Dave. _Sniiiiiiff._

Yeah, you got this.

\--

Mom retired from working full time at SkaiaNet three or four years ago, but she's still loaded as fuck, and there's nothing she loves more than throwing obscene amounts of cash at you. Between her money, Bro's money, and Jade's inheritance, you could get married on the goddamn _moon_ , but in the end you and Jade had decided on the far more reasonable Ebell of Los Angeles, just west of downtown.

That didn't stop Mom from insisting on the L.A. Four Seasons for the rehearsal dinner. In her words, "Day-veeeee, what's the point of having like a gazillion dollars if you don't spend it on experiences you're never gonna forget?" You'd relented, because you can't fucking say no to her, and let her rent out the hotel's huge, opulent ballroom.

"I am so not ready for this," you murmur as you and Jade stand outside the entrance.

"Yes you are, you big baby," Jade says gently, with a reassuring smile. Jade's smile is your kryptonite, so you heave a soft sigh and let her take your hand to lead you inside.

The ballroom is already packed with guests, and you have never been more appreciative of your shades. Most of them are people you don't recognize: Mom's co-workers, members of the SkaiaNet elite who knew Jade's grandfather, socialites, even the odd celebrity. You swallow hard, and resist the urge to tug at your collar. Time to meet and greet.

Even ten years post-poverty, you still feel like an imposter in a venue like this, like, at any minute some irate manager's gonna come shove you back in the kitchen with the waitstaff where you belong. You don't know what you'd do without Jade to help you schmooze. She's got a born and bred knowledge of etiquette and the language of the social elite. She can go from sweaty and barefoot and covered in potting soil to chatting it up with Hollywood celebutantes in the same day, and it never ceases to amaze you. Meanwhile, you only just manage not to embarrass yourself. But you're getting better. You can code-switch now like a motherfucker, from inner-city slang and a Southern drawl to the smooth, processed-cheese SoCal beat. Ain't nobody here gotta know you grew up on food stamps.

You're riding on like eighteen different coattails right now, and you're not ungrateful. But when your thesis film debuts next year? Everything's gonna change.

"Hey, Dave!" a voice cuts in across the smalltalk, and you try not to look too obviously relieved. It's John.

"Jade, babe, I'm going to go catch up with the goober, alright?" you say, out of earshot of whatever C-list celeb she's engaged in conversation with.

"Go for it," she winks, and gives you a peck on the lips.

You hightail it over to John, who's wearing—oh god, is that a polka-dotted tie on a plaid shirt? It's either unspeakably awful, or daringly, cutting edge trendy, and it worries you that you can't decide which.

"Save me," you shoutwhisper desperately when you reach him. "If I gotta hear one more word about male facial waxing, I'm gonna do a triple fuckin' Salchow off the handle." You don't have to censor yourself or put on airs around John, and that's one of the many reasons he's your best friend and best man.

John's face screws up in hilarious confusion. "I—what? Like, beardscaping?"

"What do you know about beardscaping, you hairless baby's butt? No, like eyebrow waxing for dudes."

He giggles. "I'm not surprised it's the first you've heard of it, Groucho."

"Be quiet, or you're gonna hurt their feelings," you say, tilting your shades down to reveal your own majestic brows. Mad eyebrow game runs in the family. "Anyway, how's Casey?"

Bringing up John's dumb giant salamander is the best way to change any subject with him. He lights up like a Christmas tree at the slightest mention, ready to pull out his wallet and show you the slimy amphibian's latest glamor shot. Sure enough, he digs it out his pocket and starts flipping through photos till he comes across one you haven't seen before: Casey squeezed into a little brown jumpsuit, with a tiny prop backpack on her back. There's a rectangular patch on her upper belly that says 'Stantz' in red on black.

"You're fucking kidding me," you mutter, and he takes your reaction for pleased surprise.

"Nope! She sat through the whole photo session. Of course, I had to throw the costume away because she'd slimed all over it, but it was soooo worth it."

"Yeah, I can see that. ...You're never gonna have kids, are you?"

"Nah, probably not," he shrugs. The fact that he's aro ace might have something to do with it. "That's what you and Jade are for. You guys can have, like, eight hundred kids, and I can play with them—then give them back when I'm done. Which'll probably be after five minutes, because little kids are gross as fuck."

Shit, you're blushing again. You and Jade have barely even broached the subject of having _one_ kid, and even that would have to be years from now. There's still so much you want to do first. Still so much _fantastic_ sex to be had. Seriously, when your fiancée can put her feet behind her head, it opens up all kinds of possibilities.

"Earth to Dave? C'mon, you dingus, snap out of it and say hi!"

You jerk to attention at the sound of John's voice and realize you've been fantasizing about sex with Jade for the past fifteen seconds. In a crowded room, no less. Lost as you were in your stupor, you failed to notice that your sister and her girlfriend have arrived.

"There are so many Freud jokes I could make right now," Rose says, lips pursed like she's holding back a smile. You swear, it's like she can read your mind sometimes. Awkwaaaaaard. "By the way, get over here."

You are not a hugging person, but you always make an exception for your twin. You clear your throat and hope to god you at least haven't popped one as you move in for a quick squeeze. "'Sup Rose, Nana," you greet them.

Rose pulls back and scowls at you in annoyance. "Would you quit calling her that?"

"Really, dear, I don't mind," says Nadia diplomatically.

Rose pulls her arm away and huffs, "Well, I do!"

This argument has been going on for years. You call Nadia 'Nana', your family calls her 'Nana'; even _her_ family calls her 'Nana', but for some reason it incenses Rose because it's 'not respectful enough' or some bullshit. Which is chronicles of ridic, because you respect the hell out of Nadia. She treats Rose like a princess, she's completely self made, and she's one hell of a fashion designer. Even Jade's wedding dress is a Nadia exclusive.

Plus, if she really hated the sobriquet, she wouldn't have called her fashion line 'Blue Tangier by Nana'.

"We arrived about five minutes ago," Nadia explains, drawing your collective attention away. "The hors d'oeuvres the waiters are serving are quite good, although one has to wonder what's the point of them, considering we're sitting down for a four-course meal in a matter of minutes."

"Shit, I don't know, ask Mom," you shrug. "She's the one who insisted it's not a real party without deviled eggs."

As if a mere mention were enough to summon her from the ether, your mother appears out of nowhere and drapes her arms over Rose's and Nadia's shoulders. "Hey Rosie, hey Nana!"

Rose facepalms as delicately as possible to avoid smudging her immaculate makeup. "Hello, Mother."

"And hel-loooo, Johnny." Mom winks at John, and he winks back—or tries to; he can't actually manage it, and ends up looking like he's having a stroke. "Wanna go get some of those little sausages with me? I've already had a dozen, but I can't seem to get enough of them."

John shoots you an impish little smirk before saying, "Sure, Ms. Roxy! Let's see how many sausages we can swallow together."

"You got it!" Mom releases Rose and Nadia to link arms with John, and the two of them saunter off to go accost one of the roving waiters.

There's a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then Rose lets out a whine like a slowly deflating balloon.

"Yeah, that whole fake flirting thing stopped being funny about five years ago, didn't it?" you sigh.

 

It's a relief when it hits eight, and everyone sits down for dinner. You and Jade are seated at the center table, along with Mom and Bro, Mr. Egbert, Rose, and John. The rest of your wedding party occupies the next table over: Carson, your roommate from your time abroad in Paris, Thérèse, another of your classmates, Xander, one of Jade's college buddies, and Nadia. Small, as far as wedding parties go, but they're all people you feel you could trust with your life. And hey, by what better criterion could you possibly judge them? The rest of the invitees more than make up for your otherwise small group. You didn't ask your parents what they paid to book this venue and have the dinner catered, but you know it's in the area of six digits. It all seems unnecessarily extravagant to you, but you hesitate to say you're not getting (their) money's worth. Every course, from the soup and the salad, to the ceviche appetizer, the entrée of Devon crab and Scottish lobster, to the exquisitely crafted Amedei Porcelana chocolate Fabergé eggs for dessert, is a masterpiece. You've never been an expert on the gustatory experience beyond your ability to guess pizza brands while blindfolded, but when even Jade is making pornographic noises with every bite, you know it's damn good.

Dinner itself is easy. You have no problem making small talk with your family and closest friends. But then, toward the end of dessert, Bro stands and taps his fork against the side of his champagne flute. "Yo, your attention, please." The room instinctually falls quiet, and a hundred pairs of eyes look to him to start the toasting.

"Oh. Oh god." You shudder involuntarily, and Jade leans over to sneak a hand around your waist.

You know for a fact that Bro is even more averse to public speaking than you are. How the fuck does he plan to pull this off? Wait a second… On a hunch, you sniff the air, and catch the faintest whiff of pot smoke. Uh huh.

"Friends, Romans, countrymen, and whoever the hell that guy is," he points over towards Carson, who gives him the finger, "lend me your auricular sponge clots.

"Jade, since you and Dave have known each other for so many years, I've had the privilege of watching you grow up: from a brilliant, goofy kid with a heart of gold, to a brilliant, goofy, _beautiful_ woman. I got to watch the two of you fall in love. I've seen for myself just how devoted you are to each other. All those gooey late-night Skype sessions when you thought I was asleep, all the astronomical phone bills I had to pay, the plane tickets I bought... All of it. And Jade, while I have to question your judgment for agreeing to marry this twerp, I also want you to know that I couldn't be happier to be getting _you_ for a daughter-in-law. You're one of a kind, and I can only hope that Dave understands what he's got in you."

Jade lets out a heartfelt "Awwwww!" and blushes.

"And Dave? Because this has to be said: you were a good kid then, and you're a good man now. But remember this: if you ever hurt her, I will beat your ass. Don't think I've forgotten how."

"Woo! You tell 'im, Dirky!" your mother shouts. You'd blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol, but you know for a distressing fact that she's perfectly sober. You wonder if anyone would notice if you crawled under the table to die of mortification.

"Anyway," Bro says pointedly, and raises his glass, "Let's toast to the happy couple. _Baruch ata Adonai, m'sameiach chatan im hakalah_."

"Hear, hear!" says your Uncle Paulie.

Bro turns to Jade and smiles. " _Mālama kekahi i kekahi._ " She grins back.

Then, abruptly, he switches to infomercial patter: "And don't forget, DVD recordings of the wedding night will be available for ten percent off with the discount code 'smuppet'. That's S-M-U–"

Mom rips the microphone out of his hand before he can ruin your life any further—thank _god_ —and says, "Cheers!"

"I'm gonna have to change my name after this," you murmur, before raising your flute and drinking with the rest of the gathered crowd.

Jade downs her champagne in one enormous swallow and grins, "Well, you could always be Dave Harley!"

\--

In comparison to the rehearsal dinner, your bachelor party is quiet, low key, and frankly kind of lame—exactly what you wanted. It's just you, John, Carson and Xander all holed up in sleeping bags, munching popcorn and watching movies like a gaggle of tweens.

You close your eyes, waiting for it. Here it comes. You know it. You clench your jaw so hard you feel your teeth fusing together.

“I’M CASTOR TROY!”

There it is. John never fails to disappoint.

You have a queue of four movies lined up, one for each man present. John had insisted on _Face/Off_ again, and you couldn't in all conscience tell him no after agreeing to watch Carson's _The Notebook_. At least Xander has some taste, so you'll follow that up with _The Matrix_. You're saving the best ( _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_ ) for last.

Your phone buzzes with a picture text from Rose. You open it to see a blown-out image of your fiancée with her face buried in the speedo of a greasy, glittery male stripper. "Great. Lovely."

"Oh, gross," says John, looking at the same image, before he turns off his own phone entirely and chucks it in his duffel bag. "Not something I ever needed to see."

Xander comes up behind you and peers curiously over your shoulder at your screen. "Eheheh, looks like JD's getting more action than you ever gave her."

You shove him away, and he rolls off onto his sleeping bag. "Watch it, dude," you say. "My cousin Yossi's in the Israeli Mossad, and he could waste your pasty, twiggy ass with his little fi—shit I probably wasn't supposed to tell you that, was I?"

Xander blinks behind his perpetually darkened transition lenses, and then says in a low and dangerous growl, "What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch? I'll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Navy Seals–"

"Oh god, no."

"–and I've been involved in numerous secret raids on Al-Qaeda, and I have over 300 confirmed kills," he shouts with increasing volume. "I am trained in gorilla warfare and I'm the top sniper in the entire US armed forces. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the fuck out, with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words."

"Would somebody _please_ shut him up?" John groans. You, for your part, are cracking the fuck up. Xander's faint lisp and affected Internet Tough Guy voice are making this a hundred times more hilarious. You're not sure the people in the hotel room next to you would agree, but then, who can complain about free entertainment?

"You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over the Internet? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across the USA and your IP is being traced right now so you better pmmrph frph drr shtrmm, mmghrt." The rest of the speech is forcibly cut off when Carson clamps his hand over Xander's entire lower face.

" _I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it!_ " Carson roars.

"Hrrrr, dass mhrr lirn."

"I can't believe you shit sponges are my friends," John mutters, and you lean over to give him a fistbump in solidarity. What a bunch of losers. But they're _your_ losers, and that makes them special.

 

As if tired old internet memes aren't bad enough, a couple hours later the four of you are huddled in a circle and talking about your _feelings_. You blame _The Notebook_.

"Look, Strider, it's perfectly normal for you to be nervous. Tomorrow is without a doubt the most important day of your life, and I think you're well-justified in your concern that you'll make a complete and utter ass of yourself."

"Wow, thanks, Carson. Real confidence booster."

"Are you getting cold feet or something?" Xander asks. "My brother panicked the week before his wedding, and four of us had to go drag him back from Vegas by the heels. He'd already spent half the honeymoon fund."

"Sheesh."

You shake your head. "I know I'm supposed to be getting cold feet about now, but that's hella not the case. I've wanted to marry Jade since I was, like, twelve. That's not gonna change now." It isn't _you_ r commitment you're worried about. Not that Jade has given you any reason to doubt her, but still.

"So you're feeling good about it?"

"No, I'm fucking terrified! What if I fuck up? What if she decides she doesn't wanna marry me? I mean, I couldn't blame her, I'm _kind_ of a loser tool."

"That's true," Xander shrugs.

"I don't know, I think groom is a pretty cool guy," says John loftily. "Eh marries Jade and doesn't afraid of anything."

"Yeah," Xander agrees reluctantly, "don't worry, dude, I know you'll be fine. Honest."

Somehow, their words are enough to bring your pulse back down to reasonable levels. If even Xander believes in you, then, well, you've got this shit on lockdown. "Thanks, guys."

Carson turns away from the TV again to scowl at you. "Well diddly-fucking-doo-dah, I'm glad we all feel better. Now could we _please_ get back to the movie? If I miss the goddamn kiss scene, I'm gonna cut your dick off and you'll have to consummate your marriage with a fucking hot dog."

"Hot dog?" you scoff. "Shit, I'm at _least_ a bratwurst. Or a summer sausage."

"Dave, gross!"

 

You manage to sleep well that night.

\--

The next day dawns, and because you'd avoided getting totally trashed, it comes with only the mildest of hangovers. Your wedding is at four in the afternoon, so you spend the morning with your groomsmen psyching yourself up and eating cheese cubes (all you're able to keep down at the moment) until it's time to go to the venue and get this whole shebang on the road.

You've always worn a suit well, but today you look fucking fantastic. You had it made bespoke, tailored perfectly to your tall, slim stature, and the tie alone was two-point-five Benjamins. Your hair is flawless, your posture impeccable. With the exception of Jade, you will be the hottest motherfucker at this shindig. You look daunting. Cool. Collected.

Oh god you're gonna fucking piss yourself.

"Relax, dude," John says, and punches lightly at your shoulder. "It's just your wedding."

You would shoot him a glare, but your eyes are uncovered, and you're standing in front of about a hundred people who are all looking right at you. ' _Decorum, brother dear_ ,' snarks your inner Rose-voice.

You stand up a little straighter when Rose herself emerges from the wings, at a stately walk with her flowers held at her waist. The bridesmaid gowns Jade had picked suit her perfectly; they're long, flowing, and a deep plum. Her smile flickers wider when she sees you. She takes her place on the other side of you, opposite John, and then Nadia begins her march. After her, Thérèse, and then your cousin Moshe's tiny daughter Ellie totters up the aisle, scattering hibiscus petals in her wake. When she gets to the front, she giggles and runs off to where Moshe and his wife are sitting in the second row.

The music changes, and you swallow hard as the door in the rear of the building opens to reveal your soon-to-be wife. Jade is radiant, literally, silhouetted by the sun behind her as Mr. Egbert begins to walk her down the aisle. When the doors close again, cutting out the sunlight so you can see her more clearly, you have to remind yourself to breathe. Jade has always been beautiful to you, even when she has heinous bedhead and morning breath, but today she is _stunning_.

Her dress is a masterpiece—Nadia's really outdone herself. The skirt consists of layer upon layer of ruched silk, like the petals of a rose, the edges shimmering with crystals like the final frost of spring. Her bodice is a fairytale, snow white brocade with a sweetheart neckline. Her veil is affixed by a crown of flowers, white roses and hibiscus, and her hair is loose, tumbled across her shoulders and down her back in cascades of perfect curls.

Keep it cool, Dave.

"Holy shit, no wonder you want to marry her," John whispers from your left, "she's actually _pretty_." You elbow him surreptitiously in the ribs.

You've loved Jade since you were eleven years old and you had your first stupid furry roleplay, and you've wanted to marry her since before you were legally able. How could you not want to be with her? She's _Jade._ Jade, who doesn't put up with any of your bullshit. Who pulls you back into yourself when you start to lose it. Who can always make you laugh, even on your worst days. Who smells perpetually of sea salt and hibiscus and fresh black loam. Who taught you how to surf and laughed at you every time you fell off your board, but who later carefully rubbed aloe into your burned shoulders and sealed it in with soft, apologetic kisses.

You'd made love under the open sky that night, and though your performance had suffered due to the sunburn, she'd just smiled up at you with deep dark eyes reflecting the moonlight and whispered " _nau ko`u aloha_ " in your ear.

Your favorite of your own photographs is one you took the next morning, by the pink light of dawn. Jade is dead to the world, naked, with only a thin sheet to protect her modesty. She's sprawled on her back like she always is when she sleeps, long black hair fanned out beneath her like spilled India ink, and the sunrise slanting in through the wooden slatted windows paints her skin a rich rose gold.

You've never shown that picture to anyone—not even Jade—but you keep it tucked between the pages of a composition notebook in your closet and you pull it out from time to time to stare at it.

When she finally did awake, not long after the picture was taken, was when you'd asked her to marry you. You don't have a photograph of the moment when she'd said yes, but it's burned indelibly into your mind, just as if you did.

It's perfect. _She's_ perfect. You still can't believe she agreed to get hitched to a loser asshole like you.

...Shit, why didn't you put any of this in your vows?

Finally she and Mr. Egbert reach the altar. Mr. Egbert gives you a nod and an eye-crinkling smile, and gently removes Jade's hand from his arm. You hold out your own, and her fingers entwine with yours. You can't stop smiling for the life of you.

Most of the ceremony passes by in a blur, the only fixed point Jade herself. There's some kind of blessing, some reading or another, but you're honestly not paying attention. You repeat some shit on autopilot, and the whole time, your eyes are trained on Jade's. You only snap out of your stupor when the officiant (Carson's dad) announces that it's time for the exchange of vows.

You and Jade had both agreed to write your own vows, rather than using the tired, secondhand default script. Like you do with a lot of things, you'd put it off till the last minute, but that's when you work best. You'd cranked out something heartfelt, something that was sure to leave Jade misty-eyed, something you could be proud of.

You can't remember a goddamn word of it.

"Jade, I… Wow, you know, I had this all planned out? Guess this would be a bad time to freestyle." You scratch sheepishly at the back of your head, and a ripple of murmured laughter spreads through the room. You feel like you ought to be shitting yourself with nerves, but standing face to face with Jade, you're permeated with a sense of calm like only she can engender in you. She's magic like that.

You take a deep breath, and just start talking. "So, you know how in Carson's dumb movies, people fall in love at first sight, and everybody with half a brain rolls their eyes, because they know that shit doesn't happen in real life?" Jade giggles and nods, and you both ignore Carson's quiet muttering. "Well I guess the joke's on me, because for once, Carson was right. Jade, I have loved you since I first laid eyes on you. Since before that, even. Since all we were to each other was a bunch of eye-blistering neon green and red text on a screen. I've always known in my heart that we were meant to be together—shit, that sounds crazy, but it's true. And I've always known what I want.

"I want to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of my life. I want to go on adventures with you, and then when we're done, settle down in a boring house with an unironic picket fence and build a museum for all our souvenirs. I want to be domestic with you. I want to give you foot massages. I will wear a goddamn apron and cook you breakfast in bed; that's how bad I want to be with you."

Throughout your whole speech, Jade's smile has grown wider and wider, and her cheeks rosier with shy happiness. You were hoping to wring a happy tear or two out of her, but to your complete and utter mortification, it's _you_ who have begun to tear up. Fuuuck. "Oh, look at me, I'm all verklempt," you choke out, to Jade's pealing laughter.

"You can pretend you're stoic all you want, Dave," Rose smirks. "Everybody knows you lock yourself in your bedroom and dance and cry to the Smiths in your underwear."

"I do not!" you shoot back.

"It's Spandau Ballet," Bro stage-whispers from the first row.

Jade dissolves into helpless giggles, gasping out, "No, it's true!" because she's seen it happen.

"Augh, right in the heart, you traitors," you mutter. Leave it to your family to divulge your deepest, darkest secrets in front of a goddamn crowd, but hey, they've done you the favor of allowing you to pull yourself together.

"Without any further interruptions from the peanut gallery," you say as soon as Jade recovers, with threatening glares in Rose and Bro's directions. "Jade, I'm aware I'm not an easy dude to live with. Your patience with me these last ten years has been nothing short of saintlike. I can't even fathom how you put up with my neuroses and my frankly terrible habits, but I'm thrilled you're willing to try. I know I'm a handful, but Jade, if you'll have me, I promise—no, I _swear_ , I'm yours. All of me, heart and soul. Just... take my hand and never, ever let it go. Let's do this thing. Let's make it happen." She offers you her hand, and you grip it tightly, before releasing it to caress her soft brown skin. John slips her wedding band into your free hand, and you slide it onto her slender ring finger, where it nestles alongside her engagement ring. It hits home that this is _real_ , and judging by the dazed look on Jade's face, it's hit her, too.

"Your turn, babe," you grin, and she snaps to.

"There's this candidate for a Theory of Everything-" she releases your hand and makes air quotes "-called M Theory, which is a conglomeration of five different versions of String Theory. Basically, and this is a gross simplification, in String Theory, all matter and energy exists due to vibrations of one-dimensional cosmic strings. When a string is plucked, matter phases in and out or changes forms. And do you know what that makes us? We're music. Every one of us is like a note in the universe, in this astronomical symphony. And you and I… We exist in harmony. Absolute lockstep." And now, now her eyes are moist, her smile quivering. "Dave, _I love you_. Even though you put your cold feet on me in bed, I love you. Even though you burn everything you try to cook, I love you. Even though you're allergic to dogs, and you use more hair products than I do, and you rapped your stupid, dumb, perfect proposal, I love you. You're the G to my E-flat, the beat to my bass, and there's no one I would rather spend the rest of my life with. I love you, and I _will_ love you, through thick and thin, sunshine and rain, all the way to the heat death of the universe. Forever." She motions to Rose, who hands her your wedding band. "And here's proof," she says, and pushes it up your finger, over the knuckle, where it rests securely. You stare hard at its reflective surface and try not to tear up again.

Carson's dad clears his throat and begins to speak, reminding you he's there. "Do you, David Russet Joseph Strider, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, and promise to love, cherish, and honor her for the rest of your days?"

Shit, all four names; that means this is legit. "You know I do," you grin.

"And do you, Jade Lana Harley, take this man to be your husband, and promise to love, comfort, and care for him from this day forward?"

She beams, and squeezes your hand. "Yeah!"

Carson's dad chuckles. "In that case, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

 _Hell to the yes._ You wrap your arms around Jade's waist and dip her for a deep, long kiss—with tongue, because Jade never can pass up an opportunity to scandalize stodgy old folks, and neither can you. Mom and Thérèse both wolf whistle, and then applause spreads in waves from the front row all the way to the back.

The hard part is over. Now you get to spend the rest of your life married to the person you love most in all the world, and what could be easier than that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Lemme tell you, it was fun writing two other people's vows when I already had to write my own!
> 
> As I'd mentioned in the beginning notes, there were a few things I had to cut from the final scene that I wanted to share as individual snippets. All the following takes place at the wedding reception:
> 
> You peer over Jade's shoulder, and survey the crowd. At least the reception's a little less packed than the rehearsal was. Most of the people here are family, or close family friends. You spot your grandpa Rick and your great uncle Paulie, Paulie's son Marv, your cousins Yossi, Lee, and Moshe, and Jonah Croix—whose ex, incidentally, is your agent. That whole 'six degrees' thing is clearly a gross overestimation. Wait, shit, is that Kevin Bacon?
> 
> You're distracted from your Bacon-hunt when the DJ, who until this point has played the most unironically shitty set to which you've ever been subjected, turns it up to eleven. " _WAKE UP IN THE MORNING FEELIN' LIKE P. DIDDY_ " blares over the loudspeakers, and you instantly drop the pretense of polite slow-dancing to spin Jade around so you're ass to crotch.
> 
> "Shit, this is my jam!"
> 
> "Oh lord," Jade groans, but she follows your lead and begins shimmying like she's made out of Slinkies. You aren't the only ones getting your dance on. Rose and Nadia are now doggedly slow dancing, despite the highly inappropriate music. Judging by the way Thérèse is grinding delightedly on poor, flustered Carson, she'll be asking him to come home with her by the end of the night. As you watch, Carson peels off, staggers his way over to the generously spiked punch bowl, and pours out two glasses. You think they're for him and Thérèse, until he downs both of them himself.
> 
> \--
> 
> Carson totters up to you and taps you on the shoulder. "Strider, you feculent fart-pucker."
> 
> "Yes, honeybunch?" you say sweetly, and stop dancing so you can face him. It's hard to tell against his dark skin, but he's _blushing_ , and you're not inclined to think it's all from the punch.
> 
> "Could. Could I maybe cut in?" he asks shyly. Carson Vandross hasn't done anything 'shyly' in his entire life—and it's for that reason that you can't pass up the opportunity to rag on him a little.
> 
> "Carson, baby," you say with a coy smirk, "if you want to dance with me, just say so."
> 
> He opens his mouth to retort, but Jade beats him to the punch by elbowing you out of the way and chirping, "I'd love to dance with you!"
> 
> "Whatever," you grunt with feigned hurt, "I know when I'm not wanted." Jade sticks her tongue out at you, and on that cue, you walk around to mingle with some of the other guests.
> 
> \--
> 
> Rose, Nadia, Thérèse, a couple of your cousins, and Amy, your agent, all cluster together in the center of the ballroom. 
> 
> "Okay. One, two…" With a wicked grin, she tosses the bouquet before anyone is ready, and they all scramble to try and catch it. When the flurry of satin and tulle dies down, a bewildered Nadia stands in the center of a circle of women, her head cocked as she regards the bouquet in her hand. She glances over at Rose, and they both go pink in the cheeks. D'awww.
> 
> "Yay, Nana!" Jade cheers, and Rose is so shyly happy that she doesn't so much as shoot Jade a glare.
> 
> \--
> 
> You try to pretend you can't see your dad hitting on the goddamn bartender ("But won't your wife be upset?" "My _wife_? Ahahaha.") and your mother edging closer to the DJ (not _again_ ), and just breathe. You've got more important things to do than worry about what wacky shenanigans your friends and family are getting into.
> 
> Because when you're dancing with Jade, the love of your life, all is right with the world.
> 
>  --
> 
> And that's it. The next chapter is the last. Kind of bittersweet, but I'm excited at the same time. Thanks again for your patience, all!


	30. Full Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys! I'll have more to say at the end. For now, I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Recommended listening: ["The Frame" by Oceansize](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ODw2B1ZL4Ps).
> 
> Individual warnings for this chapter: none.

\-- June, 2021 --

Your name is Dirk Strider, and today, you are officially fucking old. You're still a good twenty years shy of retirement age, but that means nothing to you when you're camped out at the hospital awaiting the birth of your first _grandchild_. God, you are way too young for this.

Your neuroses, however, have nothing on Dave's. So far he's had four coffees and three Mountain Dews, and he's paced thirty-two circuits of the private waiting room—you've been counting. There isn't much else to do when you're waiting for somebody to give birth.

Secretly, you're a little relieved you weren't present to stress out about it when your kids were born.

Dave drops down onto the squashy chair next to yours, running a hand through already messy hair. "Do you think she's okay?" he asks, and swallows nervously. His shades are long gone, and you can see the dark bags under his eyes resulting from an acute lack of sleep. Jade had gone into labor at ten last night, and in the fourteen hours since, Dave's refused to take so much as a cat nap. "Maybe I should check on her. I mean, she did threaten to castrate me if I came in the room again, but that's probably just the pain and the hormones talking, right?"

You'd like to be able to promise him he's fine, but as with all of Jade's threats, it's hard to be sure whether she's serious or not. "She's your wife," you shrug. "You tell me."

"Wow, you're so–"

Before Dave can finish his no doubt witty rejoinder, your daughter and her fiancée trudge in, laden with their airport luggage and a tray of six Starbucks coffees from the cafe in the hospital lobby. Nadia, as always, looks like she wandered off some catwalk in Milan, while Rose looks tired and frumpy in an oversized sweater. It's kind of heartwarming.

"Hello, all," Nadia greets you, as the less jetlagged of the two, and the appropriate pleasantries are exchanged.

"Sorry about all this," Rose grunts as she hands off the coffees to Nadia and arranges the luggage as out of the way as possible. "Check-in time at the hotel isn't until three, so there wasn't any point in stopping off."

"Our Lady of Delicious Lattes," says Dave, relieving Nadia of the coffee tray. When he sits back down, you snag two for yourself and Roxy, just so he can't drink them all. "How's the paparazzi sitch outside?"

Rose lifts a shoulder and waggles her hand in a 'so-so' gesture. "There's only five or six of them lurking around at the moment, but two local station reporters showed up the same time we did, so I'm sure you can expect more in the near future."

"Shit, I hope you didn't get hassled or anything on my account."

"On your account? Please, Dave, not everything revolves around you. I got hassled on _my_ account." Far from being upset about it, she actually looks pleased. You hope you won't have to break up any sibling squabbles over who's more famous.

(It's pretty bizarre, being a parent of celebrities. Roxy once got a call from some nosy reporter asking whether Dave had ever had any oedipal leanings as a child, and a TMZ pap called you last week to ask whether you were aware that Rose had run away to join a lesbian commune. You laughed in the guy's ear and hung up on him.)

"Did we miss anything?" Rose asks as she settles into a free armchair, and Nadia wedges in next to her.

"Only a few rounds of Go Fish and your brother getting kicked out the delivery room," says Roxy, from her chair on the other side of you. "Jade's been in labor since before your dad and I got here, but it isn't time yet."

Rose arches an eyebrow in Dave's direction. "Kicked out? Dave, what did you _do?_ "

"Don't look at me, I have no idea. Just, one minute everything's fine, and then the next she's screaming for me to get out."

"Sweetie," Roxy says gently, "no offense, but Jade gave you the boot because you were flipping your handsome lil' noggin and freaking her the fuck out. The delivery room is supposed to be as stress-free as possible."

"Well, excuse me if I find it difficult to stay cool when my wife is screaming and in pain and it's all my fault!"

"Come on, don't talk like that! You were so cool on the red carpet at your movie premiere, but I know you had to be nervous. Just do whatever you did to stay calm then!"

"You know what I did then? I sang 'I'm Henry the Eighth I Am' over and over in my head, Swayze style. When they asked me who I wanted to thank, and I said Henry VIII, that wasn't me playing up my ironic persona. That was me being a nerve-addled fucktruck!"

"Oh dear," says Mr. Egbert.

"I believe Rose and I are going to visit the cafeteria, if you'd like to join us for a minute or two," Nadia suggests. "It might help clear your head to walk around."

"No, I don't wanna leave the room. What if the baby comes and I'm on the other end of the hospital, having a nervous breakdown into my sloppy joe? I can't risk it."

"Okay, well, let us know if you change your mind." Nadia pulls a half-asleep Rose to her feet, and the two of them reluctantly step out.

John, whom you'd thought was asleep, pipes up from the couch across the room, "Have you tried singing 'I'm Henry the Eighth I Am'?"

"Not helping," Mr. Egbert grumps, beating you to it.

The last shred of Dave's composure frays and snaps. "God, why did we even invite you people? Shoulda just hired Nana to be the midwife and Rose to be the—hell, I don't know, the _doula_ , and not told any of the rest of y'all till after the baby was born!" He tries to stomp out of the waiting room, remembers he can't leave, and spins around with an aggravated growl to go stand in the corner.

John winces. "Oops." Yeah, fuckin' _oops_ alright.

Roxy nudges your shoulder, and points you in Dave's direction. "Go talk to him, Dirk. He needs his dad right now."

He's tense when you approach, shoulders hiked up around his ears, but as soon as you lay a hand on him, he sags into you like a puppet with the strings cut.

"Hey, kiddo," you say quietly. "You okay?"

"I dunno." He shakes his head and rubs at the bags under his eyes. "Sorry I snapped at everybody. I know they're trying to help. But I mean, look at me, I'm not ready for this! I'm not ready to be anybody's dad. _Shit_. I just..."

"Hey, hey. I know how you feel," you assure him. "Believe me, I _know._ And I promise, you're more ready than you think."

"Do you really believe that?" he asks with a heartbreakingly dubious frown.

You think back to that morning when you held Dave for the first time, how young and scared you were, and then you look at Dave now—married, successful, and with family who loves him. "I really, really do."

At that moment, the door swings open, and a nurse emerges. "Mr. Strider?" she says, and you suffer a half second of confusion before you realize she's beckoning at Dave, not you. "It's time. She's asking for you."

Dave's mouth falls open, his throat working, and he scrambles to follow the nurse. As he disappears down the short hallway, he glances back just long enough to flash you a shaky grin. He'll be just fine.

Only a few seconds after the door closes behind him, Rose rushes in with a plate of sandwiches, dragging a harried-looking Nadia behind her. "Is it time?" she asks breathlessly, smiling.

"Yes," says Roxy uncertainly, with her brow furrowed. "But how did you know?"

"Because Dave is excited. Excited and happy."

 

The next twenty minutes seem to pass by even more slowly than the past several hours, out here in the waiting room. Though the walls are well-insulated, you can hear the occasional sharp moan of pain coming from Jade's delivery room, or the obstetrician giving out orders. Mr. Egbert gets so anxious and worked up at one point that you go sit next to him, and you and John keep him distracted with games of twenty questions. Then Roxy starts biting her nails, and Rose and Nadia put her back together by trying to guess baby names, and placing bets on whether it's a boy or a girl.

Egbert is two questions away from deducing your mystery person (Betty Crocker) when you hear it—one last drawn-out moan, followed shortly by the stuttered, squeaky wails of a newborn baby.

The waiting room erupts into cheers.

Roxy launches herself out of her chair, yanks you up off the couch by the collar, and hauls you in for a sloppy kiss, right on the mouth. You don't even care; you kiss her right back.

You hear rapid footsteps, and Dave pokes his head out the door just long enough to announce, "It's a girl!" before darting back in.

Rose pulls Roxy off you and holds a hand out expectantly. "My money, please." Psh, Roxy should have known better than to wager against the erstwhile Seer of Light.

 

Now that the baby's arrived, all the tension of the last several hours evaporates. John and Roxy stuff their faces with the sandwiches Rose had brought, and you and Mr. Egbert sip at two of the remaining lattes, swapping stories of single dadhood. You've got plenty of embarrassing ammo against John, now, should he start ragging on Dave again.

Twenty minutes later, your phone buzzes with a text from Dave. ' _we got moved to a room_ ,' it reads, ' _so you can come see the baby now. she's already had her eye drops and passed her apgar and she's ready for all you dicklicks to pass her around and tell her how cute she is._ '

Roxy lets out an excited whoop, and you link arms with her, following Rose, Nadia, John, and Mr. Egbert to Jade's room (with a quick detour to wash your hands, because ' _who knows where john's stank ass cock fondlers have been_ ').

Even exhausted and with her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, Jade looks lovely. Dave, by her side, is about a thousand times more relaxed than before. Both of them are deliriously happy—neither can keep the grins off their faces. In Jade's arms is a tiny pink bundle, squirming ever so slightly and emitting the occasional muffled whine. "Guys, come see!" Jade demands, and all of you crowd around the bed for a closer look.

"She's so freakin' adorbs!" Roxy whisper-screams, wiggling in place like an excitable five-year-old.

"I don't know, I think she kinda looks like a pruny little raisin," John snorts, leaned in over the bed. Jade transfers the baby to one arm and elbows him in the gut. "Ow, shit." She elbows him again. "I mean, shhhhucks buster."

"That's right, bitch," she grins. "I was thinking more 'dried apricot', anyway."

"Yo, that's my daughter you're talking about," grumbles Dave. It hits you for the millionth time today that _your kid has a kid_. You don't know that that'll ever stop being weird.

"Have you decided on a name yet?" Nadia asks.

"Korina, Or Kori, for short."

"It's Hawaiʻian for 'maiden'," Jade explains. "And her middle name is Jane, after my grandma. I never knew her, but Grandpa always said she was really special."

"She was," Mr. Egbert says softly.

You suck in a breath and glance over at Roxy, who promptly bursts into tears.

"What's with the waterworks, Mom?" asks Dave, alarmed. "Something wrong?"

"No, nothing!" she sniffles. "It's just... It's a perfect name. Korina Jane." You wrap an arm around her and she leans into you, smiling happily through her tears, and surreptitiously wipes her runny nose on your shoulder. Charming.

You, Roxy, and Mr. Egbert are the only people left on this earth who truly know Jane Crocker for who she was, for how strong and how selfless, how loving. But this, you think—and you're sure the others agree—is a fitting remembrance.

"Do you guys wanna hold her?" Jade asks.

"More than anything," says Mr. Egbert. Jade hands him the grunting, wriggling newborn, and his whole face lights up. "Hello, Kori," he coos. Korina squeaks back. She wraps her tiny fingers loosely around his index when he presses it to her palm, and the whole room goes "Awww" in unison. It doesn't surprise you that Egbert's a natural with her; it blew your mind when Jane broke it to you that his name wasn't actually 'Dad'. (It's Iain, but you still call him Dad in your head.)

John takes the baby next. He's never been much of a kid person, from what you understand, but he holds her correctly and talks to her in a low, soft voice about how he's going to buy her all of the presents. _All_ of them. Then Korina sneezes, and John's eyes go wide. He looks a little lost, like, _oh no she's cute_.

Rose gently scoops her from his arms before he can have a crisis of personality and places the baby in Nadia's arms instead. Nadia lets out a startled, "Oh!" She looks smitten, and judging by the significant look she shares with Rose, it may not be too long before you're doing this again.

Rose seems to remember you're all watching her and clears her throat. "I see she was spared the Strider ears. _So_ unfair."

You snort. "Shush, child, those were a gift. Has anyone ever been able to sneak up on you?"

"Well, no, but–"

"There you go."

Rose gives you the Look, and you have to fight not to be cowed by your own daughter. Damn, she's good at that.

When Rose is done glaring, she hands Korina to Roxy, who sucks in a breath. "Ohhhh. Davy's nose, though, and Jade's eyes, for sure." Roxy holds out her free pinky and Kori's fingers close around it like they had on Mr. Egbert's. "You know, I remember holding your daddy when he was born, just like this. Seems like it was just yesterday." She sniffs like she might cry again, and even Dave scratches at his eyelid like he's trying to avoid tearing up.

It's your turn now. Roxy carefully hands the tiny bundle to you, and you cradle her automatically, your muscle memory still perfect after all these years.

"Hey there, little lady," you say, and Korina's eyes, though unfocused, gravitate to your face. She's still a little red and blotchy, but otherwise her skin appears to be a perfect blend of Dave's fair and Jade's toasted gold. What hair she has is medium brown, and her eyes are currently a very dark blue. While you can't speculate as to what color they'll end up, given your families' bizarre genetics, you suspect that were your lives never touched by Sburb, they'd end up brown as well.

This is your _granddaughter_. She's the very first in a brand new generation that never knew the Game, and hopefully never will.

"She's beautiful," you say, and pass her back to Dave. "Good job, lil' man."

"Dude, seriously?" Dave complains, with absolutely no heat to his voice. "I have my own kid now, so you can stop calling me that anytime."

"Sure thing, squirt."

You can tell he'd love to flip you off, but his arms are rather occupied. His glare has nothing on Rose's.

Jade tugs on the corner of Dave's T-shirt and he gets the hint, and gently deposits Kori back in her mother's arms. "The nurse said I should try feeding her as soon as I'm ready. I wonder if she's hungry," Jade muses, and in full view of everyone, she pulls aside her hospital gown and exposes a breast. Rose claps her hands down over Nadia's eyes.

"Jade, whyyyy?"

"Oh come on, Dave. A roomful of doctors already saw my junk up close and personal, so who even cares at this point?"

"I do. Everybody out, except Mom. You can stay 'cause you have experience with this."

You're uh. Quite happy to step out. You, Rose and Nadia, Mr. Egbert, and a traumatized-looking John all beat a hasty retreat back to the waiting room, chatting about the unseasonably cool weather. Anything to get the image of your daughter-in-law's perky brown nipple out of your head. Like, wow.

 

There's really no reason for any of you to linger around the hospital, now that everyone has met Korina. All of you who are in town visiting have hotel rooms, and there are plans for a mini-party the day Dave and Jade bring the baby home, and so Rose and Nadia impart their temporary goodbyes and leave, followed by John and Mr. Egbert. You and Roxy stick around. You can't explain why, but you get the feeling it's not time for you to go. Not yet.

Dave and Jade request an hour or two before dinner to rest, which you are happy to oblige. Roxy settles down in her waiting room chair with some books and a snuggie like a four-year-old on a road trip, but you're feeling a little restless, so you give her a kiss and leave to go explore the hospital. It's a big place, and maze-like, with half a dozen buildings connected by featureless hallways. You wander from building to building, enjoying the anonymity of being well known in a field that the average American doesn't give a shit about. (You're still not sure how Dave and Rose do it.) Here and there you come across interesting pieces of art, usually in memory of some donor or another. There's a painting down in the atrium of one of the buildings, near the cafeteria, that catches your eye because it bears more than a passing resemblance to Skaia. The plaque underneath reads, ' _In Memory of Dolores P. Metternich, Holocaust Survivor'_ , and you wonder if she was somebody you knew in another life. Maybe. Probably.

 

Eventually all those Starbucks lattes hit you, and you have to stop to take a piss. The urinal is one of those automatic ones with the holographic advertising displays that've popped up in the last few years. The eHarmony gay singles ad disappears when you give it the finger. (Targeted marketing is creepy as fuck. Even you're not sure how they know half the shit about you that comes up, and you work in the A.I. technology sector.)

The mirror over the sink where you wash your hands is blessedly ad-free. You peer closer at your reflection, caught suddenly in the throes of ennui, and you catalogue all the ways you've changed. You have more lines at the corners of your eyes than last year. More flecks of silver in your sideburns.

Time is a cruel mistress. You feel your age, really _feel_ it, and it sucks. You feel it in your bones, in the way all-nighters leave you strung out and useless the next day, unlike when you were a kid. You can't eat junk food all the time and expect to stay fit and healthy anymore. You've been contemplating taking your piercings out for months, ever since some punk-ass kid questioned whether they were appropriate for a 'geezer' like you. And while you still have plenty of life left in you, you're cognizant of a shift in the wind, as if that chapter of your life is over forever.

It occurs to you how melancholy this line of thought really is. Now would be a pertinent time for a shooshpap, wouldn't it?

"Hey, Roxy?" you call, after finding her just where you left her.

She looks up from where she's lounging in her waiting room chair and slaughtering a book of Sudoku. "Ooh, Dirk," she shoots you a pained wince, effortlessly reading your lack of expression. She tosses her Sudoku book aside and rolls off the chair, snuggie and all. Her joints pop as she straightens and darts in for a hug. "Shoooosh, buddy. You need a Xanax?"

"Nah, this is good." You tuck your chin over her shoulder, snorting her hair out of your nose. "Rox," you murmur.

"Yeah, Dirky?"

"Are we old?"

Roxy laughs a little and pats your back. "Maybe, but so what if we are? We missed out on getting old our last two lives, so it was bound to catch up with us sometime."

"I guess." You hold onto her tighter. "I miss Jake and Jane."

"I miss them too," she sighs. "You know they'd've loved to be here for this."

You can almost picture in your head how it would have gone. Jane would have been touched to have a namesake, for sure. You've never been a believer, but you wonder if, somewhere, she knows.

"Do you… do you think we'll ever see them again?" you ask. "Y'know, after?" After you die for real this time.

"You mean, like, in dream bubbles?" She sighs wistfully. "That's nice to think about."

"Yeah. It is."

Roxy pulls back from you to look you over, concern writ in the angle of her frown. "Where's all this coming from, anyway?"

"I dunno, I guess I'm just reminded of my own mortality. Time marches on, and all that."

She reaches up to thread her fingers through your short hair, and you lean into her touch like a contented hound dog. "I wouldn't change things even if I could," she says. "It means Dave and Rose get to live the lives they never had."

"That's true." If there's anything that never fails to put things in perspective for you, it's the value of your children's happiness.

Roxy giggles suddenly. "And hey, you're still the world's hottest grandpa."

"Shh. We don't use that word." Not yet, anyway. It took you five years just to come to terms with being a dad, but you're sure you'll come around to it eventually.

"Any better?" she asks.

You smile, and hold up your hand for your half of a finger-diamond. "Yeah. Better for now."

She completes the diamond with her smaller, far more manicured hand. "I guess that's good enough."

 

You find Dave at the nursery window a short time later, gazing in at the little pink-wrapped bundle in the second row. He's so intent, brow furrowed in thought, that you stand beside him for a full ten seconds before he notices your reflection in the glass and straightens up.

"It's incredible, isn't it?" you say quietly.

Dave turns from your reflection to give you a quizzical stare face to face. "What is?"

"How quick the worry sets in. You start paying attention to things you never noticed before. The air temperature, how bright the lights are, how noisy other people are being… Stuff like that."

His expression softens, and he turns back to the window, touching the pads of his fingers to the glass. "Does it ever go away?"

"The worry? ...No." Even now, the father in you wants to urge Dave to get some rest, and make sure he's been eating enough.

He shoots a look askance at you, and the corners of his mouth curl upward. "I'll be fine. I promise."

"I know you will," you sigh wistfully. You reach out and ruffle his hair one last time, for nostalgia's sake. He'll always be your son, but he's not your baby anymore. He hasn't been for a long time. He's a grown man now, with his own family to care for. Now, more than ever, it's clear to you—he doesn't need you anymore.

Maybe you'll go outside, have a smoke and reflect on the profundity of your obsolescence. But the minute you make up your mind to leave, Dave reaches out and puts a hand on your shoulder to stop you. "Wait up," he says, herding you across the room toward two unoccupied chairs. "I wanted to sit you down so we could talk."

"About what?" you ask apprehensively as you sit.

Dave smiles at you. He has such a beautiful smile, when he chooses to share it. "This whole parenting biz is still pretty scary to me, so I figured I could use some pointers from an expert. Who better to have my back than you, Dad?"

A weight falls from your shoulders that you hadn't even realized was there. You take in a deep breath, and hold it—he still wants you around. Still needs you, even now. "Dave, I..."

You don't know what more to say, but then again, you don't have to say anything. Dave snags you around the shoulders and pulls you in for a crushing embrace, and it's horribly uncomfortable with the arms of the two chairs between you, but you've never gotten a more perfect hug in your life. "Thank you."

Your heart glows in your chest like an ember, suffusing your body with warmth, and for once in your three lives, you feel at peace.

Third time's the charm. This time, you got it right.

the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _Time won't change a thing when I'm gone_  
>  Don't grip the wheel too tightly, my son...  
> I am not the picture now, I, I'm the frame"  
> ~Oceansize, "The Frame"
> 
> And that's it.
> 
> Thank you all SO MUCH for your kind, insightful comments, and your words of encouragement. I started writing this story for myself—and if you need proof of that, consider I had roughly 90% of it written before I even started posting—however, somewhere along the way, it became a story for you. I hope you've enjoyed the ride as much as I have.
> 
> I may return to visit this world sometimes, in vignettes and one-shots, but as for the main story, this chapter is definitely the last. That's not to say it's the end of Dirk and Roxy's stories, or of the kids'. After all, there are always dream bubbles...
> 
> Happy dreaming.
> 
> <3


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